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]^  O  S  T  O  N 
ROBERTS     BROTHERS 

1S67 


AUTHORS     KDITION. 


( -  A  M  r,  Tj  I  T>  r  J  K  : 
Eleetrotypod  and  rrintcd  l)y  Jolm  Wilson  cfe  Son. 


'^A--^   JLff^ 


LI/S66. 


Betiicatt0n. 


GEORGE   K.   INGELOW. 


YOUR    LOVIXG     SISTER 


OFFERS   YOU   THESE   P0K:MS,    PARTLY   AS 


AX     EXPRESSION     OF     HER     AFFECTION,     PARTLY      FOR      THE 


PLEASURE     OF     CONNECTING     HER    EFFORT 


■WITH     YOUR     NA31E. 


KEXSiNGToy,  June,  1S63. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Divided ^ 

HoxoRs.  — Part  1 2q 

Honors. —  Part  II 27 

Eequiescat  IX  Pace! 44 

Supper  at  the  Mill 55 

Scholar  and  Carpenter 69 

The  Star's  Monument 9q 

A  Dead  Year 227 

Reflections 23- 

The  Letter  L 2^q 

The  High  Tide  on  the  Coast  of  Lincolnshire  .    .     177 

Afternoon  at  a  Parsonage 186 

Songs  of  Seven 201 

A  Cottage  in  a  Chine 215 

Persephone 221 

A  Sea  Song 227 

Brothers,  and  a  Sermon     .... 


229 

The  Four  Bridges 


A.  Wedding  Song 265 


267 

^  Mother  Shoaving  the  Portrait  of  her  Child  .  302 

Strife  and  Peace 32q 

[3] 


POEMS 


POEMS. 


DIVIDED. 
I. 

X  empty  sky,  a  world  of  heather, 
Purple   of  foxglove,  yellow  of 
broom ; 
We  two  among  them  wading  to- 
gether. 
Shaking    out    honey,    treading 
perfume. 


Crowds  of  bees  are  giddy  with  clover, 
Crowds  of  grasshoppers  skip  at  our  feet. 

Crowds  of  larks  at  their  matins  hang  over, 
Thanking  the  Lord  for  a  life  so  sweet. 

[7] 


Flushetli  the  rise  with  her  purple  favor, 
Gloweth  the  cleft  with  her  golden  ring, 

'Twixt  the  two  brown  butterflies  waver 
Lightly  settle,  and  sleepily  swing. 


We  two  walk  till  the  purple  dieth 

And  short  dry  grass  under  foot  is  brown, 

But  one  little  streak  at  a  distance  lieth 
Green  like  a  ribbon  to  prank  the  down. 


II. 

Over  the  grass  we  stepped  unto  it, 
And  God  He  knoweth  how  blithe  we  were ! 

Kever  a  voice  to  bid  us  eschew  it : 

Hey  the  green  ribbon  that  showed  so  fair ! 


Hey  the  green  ribbon  !  we  kneeled  beside  it. 
We  parted  the  grasses  dewy  and  sheen ; 

Drop  over  drop  there  filtered  and  slided 
A  tiny  bright  beck  that  trickled  between. 


DIVIDED. 


Tinkle,  tinkle,  sweetly  it  sung  to  us. 
Light  was  our  talk  as  of  faery  bells  — 

Faery  wedding-bells  faintly  rung  to  us 
Down  in  their  fortunate  parallels. 


Hand  in  hand,  while  the  sun  peered  over, 

We  lapped  the  grass  on  that  youngling  spring  ; 

Swept  back  its  rushes,  smoothed  its  clover, 
And  said,  "  Let  us  follow  it  westering." 


m. 

A  dappled  sky,  a  world  of  meadows. 
Circling  above  us  the  black  rooks  fly 

Forward,  backward ;  lo,  their  dark  shadows 
Flit  on  the  blossoming  tapestry  — 


Flit  on  the  beck,  for  her  long  grass  parteth 
As  hair  from  a  maid's  bright  eyes  blown  back. ; 

And,  lo,  the  sun  like  a  lover  darteth 

His  flattering  smile  on  her  wayward  track. 


10 


Sing  on !  we  sing  in  the  glorious  weather 
Till  one  steps  over  the  tiny  strand, 

So  narrow,  in  sooth,  that  still  together 
On  either  brink  we  go  hand  in  hand. 


The  beck  grows  wider,  the  hands  must  sever. 

On  either  margin,  our  songs  all  done, 
We  move  apart,  while  she  singeth  ever, 

Taking  the  course  of  the  stooping  sun. 


He  prays,  "  Come  over  "  —  I  may  not  follow ; 

I  cry,  ' '  Return  "  —  but  he  cannot  come  : 
We  speak,  we  laugh,  but  with  voices  hollow ; 

Our  hands  are  hanging,  our  hearts  are  numb. 


IV. 

A  breathing  sigh,  a  sigh  for  answer, 
A  little  talking  of  outward  things  : 

The  careless  beck  is  a  merry  dancer, 
Keeping  sweet  time  to  the  air  she  sings. 


/ 


/ 


11 


A  little  pain  when  the  beck  grows  wider ; 
"  Cross  to  me  now  —  for  her  wavelets  swell : 
*'  I  may  noi  cross '"'  —  and  the  voice  beside  her 
Faintly  reacheth,  though  heeded  well. 


No  backward  path  ;  ah  !  no  returning ; 

No  second  crossing  that  ripple's  flow : 
Come  to  me  now,  for  the  west  is  burning ; 

Come  ere  it  darkens  ;  "  —  "  Ah,  no  !  ah,  no  !  " 


Then  cries  of  pain,  and  arms  outreaching  — 
The  beck  grows  wider  and  swift  and  deep  : 

Passionate  words  as  of  one  beseeching  — 

The  loud  beck  drowns  them ;  we  walk,  and  weep. 


V. 

A  yellow  moon  in  splendor  drooping, 
A  tired  queen  with  her  state  oppressed, 

Low  by  rushes  and  swordgrass  stooping. 
Lies  she  soft  on  the  waves  at  rest. 


12 


The  desert  heavens  have  felt  her  sadness  ; 

Her  earth  will  weep  her  some  dewy  tears ; 
The  wild  beck  ends  her  tune  of  gladness, 

And  goeth  stilly  as  soul  that  fears. 


We  two  walk  on  in  our  grassy  places 
On  either  marge  of  the  moonlit  flood, 

With  the  moon's  own  sadness  in  our  faces, 
Where  joy  is  withered,  blossom  and  bud. 


A  shady  freshness,  chafers  whirring, 
A  little  piping  of  leaf-hid  birds  ; 

A  flutter  of  wings,  a  fitful  stirrinc:, 

A  cloud  to  the  eastward  snowy  as  curds. 


Bare  glassy  slopes,  where  kids  are  tethered ; 

Round  valleys  like  nests  all  ferney-lined  ; 
Round  hills,  with  fluttering  tree-tops  feathered. 

Swell  high  in  their  freckled  robes  behind. 


13 


A  rose-flush  tender,  a  thrill,  a  quiver. 

When  golden  gleams  to  the  tree-tops  glide 
A  flashing  edge  for  the  milk-white  river, 

The  beck,  a  river  —  with  still  sleek  tide. 


Broad  and  white,  and  polished  as  silver, 
On  she  goes  under  fruit-laden  trees  ; 

Sunk  in  leafage  cooeth  the  culver. 
And  'plaineth  of  love's  disloyalties. 


Glitters  the  dew  and  shines  the  river, 
Up  comes  the  lily  and  dries  her  bell; 

But  two  are  walking  apart  for  ever. 

And  wave  their  hands  for  a  mute  farewell. 


VII. 

A  braver  swell,  a  swifter  sliding  ; 

The  river  hasteth,  her  banks  recede  : 
Wing-like  sails  on  her  bosom  gliding 

Bear  down  the  lily  and  drown  the  reed. 


14  DIVIDED. 

Stately  prows  are  rising  and  bowing 
(Shouts  of  mariners  winnow  the  air), 

And  level  sands  for  banks  endowing 

The  tiny  green  ribbon  that  showed  so  fair. 


While,  O  my  heart !  as  white  sails  shiver. 

And  crowds  are  passing,  and  banks  stretch  wide, 

How  hard  to  follow,  with  lips  that  quiver. 
That  moving  speck  on  the  far-off  side  ! 


Farther,  farther  —  I  see  it  —  know  it  — 
My  eyes  brim  over,  it  melts  away : 

Only  my  heart  to  my  heart  shall  show  it 
As  I  walk  desolate  day  by  day. 


^^II. 

And  yet  I  know  past  all  doubting,  truly  — 
A  knowledge  greater  than  grief  can  dim  — 

I  know,  as  he  loved,  he  will  love  me  duly  — 
Yea,  better  —  e'en  better  than  I  love  him. 


DmDED.  15 

And  as  I  walk  by  the  vast  calm  river, 

The  awful  river  so  dread  to  see, 
I  say,  "  Thy  breadth  and  thy  depth  for  ever 

Are  bridged  by  his  thoughts  that  cross  to  me." 


IG 


HONORS.  — PART  I. 


A  Scholar  is  musing  on  his  Want  of  Success. 


^T^  F^\  ^  strive  —  and  fail.      Yes,   I  did 
strive  and  fail, 
I  set  mine  eyes  upon  a  certain  night 
To  find  a  certain  star  —  and  could 
not  hail 
With  them  its  deep-set  light. 


Fool  that  I  teas !    I  u-ill  rehearse  my  faidt : 
I,  wingless,  thouglit  myself  on  high  to  lift 
Among  the  winged  —  I  set  these  feet  that  halt 
To  run  against  the  swift. 


And  yet  this  man,  that  loved  me  so,  can  write  — 

That  loves  me,  I loould  say,  can  let  me  see; 
Or  fain  icoidd  have  me  think  he  counts  hut  light 
These  Honors  lost  to  me. 


HONORS.  17 

[The  Letter  of  his  Friend.^ 
What  are  they  ?  that  old  house  of  yours  which  gave 

Such  welcomes  oft  to  me,  the  sunbeams  fall 
Still,  down  the  squares  of  blue  and  white  which  pave 
Its  hospitable  hall. 

■  A  brave  old  house  !  a  garden  full  of  bees, 

Large  dropping  poppies,  and  queen  hollyhocks, 
With  butterllies  for  crowns  —  tree  peonies 
And  pinks  and  goldilocks. 

Go,  when  the  shadow  of  your  house  is  long 

Upon  the  garden  —  when  some  new-waked  bird, 
Pecking  and  fluttering,  chirps  a  sudden  song, 
And  not  a  leaf  is  stirred ; 

■  But  every  one  drops  dew  from  either  edge 

Upon  its  fellow,  while  an  amber  ray 
Slants  up  among  the  tree-tops  like  a  wedge 
Of  liquid  gold  —  to  play 

'  Over  and  under  them,  and  so  to  fall 

Upon  that  lane  of  water  lying  below  — 
That  piece  of  sky  let  in,  that  you  do  call 
A  pond,  but  which  I  know 


18  HONORS. 

"  To  be  a  deep  and  wondrous  world  ;  for  I 

Have  seen  the  trees  within  it  —  marvellous  things 
So  thick  no  bird  betwixt  their  leaves  could  fly 
But  she  would  smite  her  wings ;  — 

*'  Go  there,  I  say  ;  stand  at  the  water's  brink, 
And  shoals  of  spotted  grayling  you  shall  see 
Basking  between  the  shadows  — look,  and  think 
'  This  beauty  is  for  me  ; 

*'  *  For  me  this  freshness  in  the  morning  hours  ; 
For  me  the  water  s  clear  tranquillity ; 
For  me  that  soft  descent  of  chestnut  flowers ; 
The  cushat's  cr}^  for  me. 

*•  *  The  lovely  laughter  of  the  wind-swayed  wheat  | 
The  easy  slope  of  yonder  pastoral  hill; 
The  sedgy  brook  whereby  the  red  kine  meet 
And  wade  and  drink  their  fill.' 

"  Then  saunter  down  that  tei-race  whence  the  sea 
All  fair  with  wing-like  sails  you  may  discern ; 
Be  glad,  and  say  '  This  beauty  is  for  me  — 
A  thinff  to  love  and  learn. 


HONORS.  19 

"  '  For  me  the  bounding  in  of  tides  ;  for  me 
The  laving  bare  of  sands  when  they  retreat ; 
The  purple  flush  of  calms,  the  sparklmg  glee 
When  waves  and  sunshine  meet.' 

"  So,  after  gazing,  homeward  turn,  and  mount 
To  that  long  chamber  in  the  roof;  there  tell 
Your  heart  the  laid-up  lore  it  holds  to  count 
And  prize  and  ponder  well. 

**The  lookings  onward  of  the  race  before 
It  had  a  past  to  make  it  look  behind ; 
Its  reverent  wonders,  and  its  doubtings  sore, 
Its  adorations  blind. 

'*  The  thunder  of  Its  war-songs,  and  the  glow 
Of  chants  to  freedom  by  the  old  world  sung ; 
The  sweet  love  cadences  that  long  ago 

Dropped  from  the  old-world  tongue. 

And  then  this  new-world  lore  that  takes  account 

Of  tangled  star-dust;  maps  the  triple  whirl 
Of  blue  and  red  and  argent  worlds  that  mount 
And  greet  the  Irish  Earl  ; 


20  HONORS. 

**  Or  float  across  the  tube  that  Herschel  swavs, 
Like  pale-rose  chaplets,  or  like  sapphire  mist; 
Or  hang  or  droop  along  the  heavenly  ways, 
Like  scarfs  of  amethyst. 

"  O  strange  it  is  and  wide  the  new-world  lore, 
For  next  it  treateth  of  our  native  dust ! 
Must  dig  out  buried  monsters,  and  explore 
The  green  earth's  fruitful  crust ; 

•'  Must  write  the  story  of  her  seething  youth  — 
How  lizards  paddled  in  her  lukewarm  seas ; 
Must  show  the  cones  she  ripened,  and  forsooth 
Count  seasons  on  her  trees ; 

*'  Must  know  her  weight,  and  pry  into  her  age, 
Count  her  old  beach  lines  by  their  tidal  swell ; 
Her  sunken  mountains  name,  her  craters  gauge, 
Her  cold  volcanoes  tell ; 

**  And  treat  her  as  a  ball,  that  one  might  pass 
From  this  hand  to  the  other  —  such  a  ball 
As  he  could  measure  with  a  blade  of  grass, 
And  say  it  was  but  small ! 


HONORS.  21 

"  Honors  !     O  friend,  I  pray  you  bear  with  me  : 
The  grass  hath  time  to  grow  in  meadow  lands, 
And  leisurely  the  opal  murmuring  sea 
Breaks  on  her  yellow  sands ; 

"  And  leisurely  the  ring-dove  on  her  nest 

Broods  till  her  tender  chick  will  peck  the  shell  ; 
And  leisurely  down  fall  from  ferny  crest 
The  dew-drops  on  the  well ; 

*'  And  leisurely  your  life  and  spirit  grew, 

With  yet  the  time  to  grow  and  ripen  free  : 
No  judgment  past  withdraws  that  boon  from  you, 
Nor  granteth  it  to  me. 

*'  Still  must  I  plod,  and  still  in  cities  moil ; 
From  precious  leisure,  learned  leisure  far, 
Dull  my  best  self  with  handling  common  soil ; 
Yet  mine  those  honors  are. 

'*  Mine  they  are  called ;  they  are  a  name  which  means, 
'  This  man  had  steady  pulses,  tranquil  nerves ; 
Here,  as  in  other  fields,  the  most  he  gleans 
Who  works  and  never  swerves. 


22  HONORS. 

*'  'We  measure  not  bis  mind ;  we  cannot  tell 
What  lieth  under,  over,  or  beside 
The  test  we  put  him  to  ;  he  doth  excel 
"We  know,  where  he  is  tried ; 

"  '  But,  if  he  boast  some  further  excellence  — 
Mind  to  create  as  well  as  to  attain ; 
To  sway  his  peers  by  golden  eloquence, 
As  wind  doth  shift  a  fane ; 

*' '  To  sing  among  the  poets  —  we  are  nought: 
We  cannot  drop  a  line  into  that  sea 
And  read  its  fathoms  off,  nor  gauge  a  thought, 
Xor  map  a  simile. 

*' '  It  may  be  of  all  voices  sublunar 

The  only  one  he  echoes  we  did  try ; 
We  may  have  come  upon  the  only  star 
That  twinkles  in  his  sky.' 

**  And  so  it  was  with  me." 

0  false  my  friend! 
False,  false,  a  random  charge,  a  blame  undue ; 
Wrest  not  fair  reasoning  to  a  crooked  end: 
False,  false,  as  you  are  true! 


HONORS.  23 

But  I  read  on :  "And  so  it  was  with  me ; 
Your  golden  constellations  lying  apart 
They  neither  hailed  nor  greeted  heartily, 
Kor  noted  on  their  chart. 

'■'■  And  yet  to  you  and  not  to  me  belong 

Those  finer  instincts  that,  like  second  sight 
And  hearing,  catch  creation's  undersong, 
And  see  by  inner  light. 

■'  You  are  a  well,  whereon  I,  gazing,  see 

Reflections  of  the  upper  heavens  —  a  Avell 
From  whence  come  deep,  deep  echoes  u^)  to  me  — 
Some  underwave's  low  swell. 

"  I  cannot  soar  into  the  heights  you  show, 

Xor  dive  among  the  deeps  that  you  reveal ; 
But  it  is  much  that  high  things  are  to  know, 
That  deep  things  are  to  feel. 

"  'Tis  yours,  not  mine,  to  pluck  out  of  your  breast 
Some  human  truth,  whose  workings  recondite 
"Were  unattired  in  words,  and  manifest 
And  hold  it  forth  to  light. 


24  HONORS. 

"  And  cry,  '  Behold  this  thing  that  I  have  found.' 
And  though  they  knew  not  of  it  till  that  day, 
Nor  should  have  done  with  no  man  to  expound 
Its  meaning,  yet  they  say, 

"  '  We  do  accept  it :  lower  than  the  shoals 
We  skim,  this  diver  went,  nor  did  create, 
But  find  it  for  us  deeper  in  our  souls 
Than  we  can  penetrate.' 

*'  You  were  to  me  the  world's  interpreter, 

The  man  that  taught  me  Xature's  unknown  tongue. 
And  to  the  notes  of  her  wild  dulcimer 
First  set  sweet  words  and  sung 

**  And  what  am  I  to  you  ?     A  steady  hand 
To  hold,  a  steadfast  heart  to  trust  withal ; 
Merely  a  man  that  loves  you,  and  will  stand 
By  you,  whatever  befall. 

*'  But  heed  we  praise  his  tendance  tutelar 

Who  feeds  a  flame  that  warms  him  ?    Yet  'tis  true 
I  love  you  for  the  sake  of  what  you  are. 
And  not  of  what  you  do  :  — 


25 


"As  heaven's  high  twins,  whereof  in  Tyrian  blue 
The  one  revoiveth  ;  through  his  course  immense 
Might  love  his  fellow  of  the  damask  hue, 
For  hke,  and  dilFerence. 

"  For  different  pathways  ever  more  decreed 
To  intersect,  but  not  to  interfere ; 
For  common  goal,  two  aspects,  and  one  speed, 
One  centre  and  one  year ; 

"  For  deep  affinities,  for  drawings  strong, 

That  by  their  nature  each  must  needs  exert ; 
For  loved  alliance,  and  for  union  long. 
That  stands  before  desert. 

"  And  yet  desert  makes  brighter  not  the  less. 
For  nearest  his  own  star  he  shall  not  fail , 
To  think  those  rays  unmatched  for  nobleness, 
That  distance  counts  but  pale. 

*'  Be  pale  afar,  since  still  to  me  you  shine. 

And  must  while  Nature's  eldest  law  shall  hold  ; "  — 
All,  there^s  the  tlwugld  whicli  makes  his  random  line 
Dear  as  rejinld  gold  ! 


26  HONORS. 

Then  shall  I  drink  this  draught  of  oxymel^ 

Part  siveet,  part  sharp  ?    Myself  overprized  to  know 
Is  sharp ;  the  cause  is  sweet,  and  truth  to  tell 
Few  ivould  that  cause  forego, 

Which  is,  that  this  of  all  the  men  on  earth 

Doth  love  me  icell  enough  to  count  me  great  — 
To  think  my  soul  and  his  of  equal  girth  — 

0  libercd  estimate ! 

And  yet  it  is  so  ;  he  is  hound  to  me, 

For  human  love  makes  cdiens  near  of  kin  ; 
By  it  I  rise,  there  is  equality  : 

1  rise  to  thee,  my  twin. 

' '  Take  courage  "  —  courage !  ay,  my  jnirple  peer, 
I  loill  take  courage ;  for  thy  Tyrian  rays 
Befresh  me  to  the  heart,  and  strangely  dear 
And  healing  is  tliy  praise. 

*'  Take  courage,"  quoth  he,  "  and  respect  tlie  mind 
Your  Maker  gave,  for  good  your  fate  fulfil ; 
The  fate  round  many  hearts  your  own  to  wind." 
Twin  soul,  I  will !  I  icill .' 


HONORS. 


27 


HONORS.— PART  11. 


Tlie  Answer. 


S  one  who. 


journeying,  checks  the 
rein  in  haste 
Because  a  chasm  doth  yawn  across 
his  way 
Too  wide  for  leaping,  and  too  steeply 
faced 
For  climber  to  essay  — 


As  such  an  one,  being  brought  to  sudden  stand, 

Doubts  all  his  foregone  path  if  'twere  the  true, 
And  turns  to  this  and  then  to  the  other  hand 
As  knowing  not  what  to  do,  — 

So  I,  being  checked,  am  with  my  path  at  strife 

Which  led  to  such  a  chasm,  and  there  doth  end. 
False  path  !  it  cost  me  priceless  years  of  life, 
My  well-beloved  friend. 


28  HONORS. 

There  fell  a  flute  when  Ganymede  went  up  — 

The  flute  that  he  was  wont  to  play  upon  : 
It  dropped  beside  the  jonquil"^  milk-white  cup, 
And  freckled  cowslips  wan  — 

Dropped  from  his  heedless  hand  when,  dazed  and 
mute, 
He  sailed  upon  the  eagle's  quivering  wing, 
Aspiring,  panting  —  ay,  it  dropped  —  the  flute 
Erewhile  a  cherished  thing. 

Among  the  delicate  grasses  and  the  bells 

Of  crocuses  that  spotted  a  rill  side, 
I  picked  up  such  a  flute,  and  its  clear  swells 
To  my  young  lips  replied. 

I  played  thereon,  and  its  response  was  sweet ; 

But,  lo,  they  took  from  me  that  solacing  reed. 
•'  O  shame  !  *'  they  said  ;  "  such  music  is  not  meet; 
Go  up  like  Ganj-mede. 

"Go  up,  despise  these  humble  grassy  things, 

Sit  on  the  golden  edge  of  yonder  cloud." 

Alas  !  though  ne'er  for  me  those  eagle  wings 

Stooped  from  their  eyrie  proud. 


HONORS,  29 

My  flute  !  and  flung  away  its  echoes  sleep  ; 
But  as  for  me,  my  life-pulse  beateth  low; 
And  like  a  last-year's  leaf  enshrouded  deep 
Under  the  drifting  snow, 

Or  like  some  vessel  wrecked  upon  the  sand 

Of  torrid  swamps,  with  all  her  merchandise, 
And  left  to  rot  betwixt  the  sea  and  land, 
My  helpless  spirit  lies. 

Ruing,  I  think  for  what  then  was  I  made  ; 

What  end  appointed  for  —  what  use  designed? 
Now  let  me  right  this  heart  that  was  bewrayed  — 
Unveil  these  eyes  gone  blind. 

My  well-beloved  friend,  at  noon  to-day 

Over  our  cliffs  a  white  mist  lay  unfurled. 
So  thick,  one  standing  on  their  brink  might  say, 
Lo,  here  doth  end  the  world. 

A  white  abyss  beneath,  and  nought  beside  ; 

Yet,  hark  I  a  cropping  sound  not  ten  feet  down  : 
Soon  I  could  trace  some  browsing  lambs  that  hied 
Through  rock-paths  cleft  and  brown. 


30 


And  here   and   there   green   tufts   of  grass    peered 
through, 
Salt  lavender,  and  sea  thrift ;  then  behold, 
The  mist,  subsiding  ever,  bared  to  view 
A  beast  of  giant  mould. 

She  seemed  a  great  sea  monster  lying  content 

With  all  her  cubs  about  her :  but  deep  —  deep  - 
The  subtile  mist  went  floating ;  its  descent 
Showed  the  world's  end  was  steep. 

It  shook,  it  melted,  shaking  more,  till,  lo, 

The  sprawling  monster  was  a  rock  ;  her  brood 
Were  boulders,  whereon  seamews  white  as  snow 
Sat  watching  for  their  food. 

Then  once  again  it  sank,  its  day  was  done : 
Part  rolled  away,  part  vanished  utterly, 
And  glimmering  softly  under  the  white  sun, 
Behold !  a  great  white  sea. 

O  that  the  mist  which  veileth  my  To-come 

Would  so  dissolve  and  yield  unto  mine  eyes 
A  worthy  path  !     Ixl  count  not  wearisome 
Long  toil,  nor  enterprise. 


HONORS.  31 

But  strain  to  reach  it ;  ay,  with  wrestlings  stout 

And  hopes  that  even  in  the  dark  will  grow 
(Like  plants  in  dungeons,  reaching  feelers  out). 
And  ploddings  wary  and  slow. 

Is  there  such  path  already  made  to  fit 

The  measure  of  my  foot  ?     It  shall  atone 
For  much,  if  I  at  length  may  light  on  it 
And  know  it  for  mine  own. 

But  is  there  none  ?  why,  then  'tis  more  than  well : 

And  glad  at  heart  myself  will  hew  one  out. 
Let  me  be  only  sure  ;  for,  sooth  to  tell. 
The  sorest  dole  is  doubt  — 

Doubt,  a  blank  twilight  of  the  heart,  which  mars 

All  sweetest  colors  in  its  dimness  same  ; 
A  soul-mist,  through  whose  rifts  familiar  stars 
Beholding,  we  misname. 

A  ripple  on  the  inner  sea,  which  shakes 

Those  images  that  on  its  breast  reposed  ; 
A  fold  upon  the  wind-swayed  flag,  that  breaks 
The  motto  it  disclosed. 


32  HONORS. 


I  feel  thee  fluttering  bird-like  in  my  breast ; 
I  cannot  loose,  but  I  will  sing  to  thee, 
And  flatter  thee  to  rest. 

There  is  no  certainty,  "  my  bosom's  guest," 

No  proving  for  the  things  whereof  ye  wot ; 
For,  like  the  dead  to  sight  unmanifest, 
They  are,  and  they  are  not. 

But  surely  as  they  are,  for  God  is  truth, 

And  as  they  are  not,  for  we  saw  them  die, 
So  surely  from  the  heaven  drops  light  for  youth, 
If  youth  will  walk  thereby. 

And  can  I  see  this  light  ?     It  may  be  so  ; 

*'  But  see  it  thus  and  thus,"  my  fathers  said. 
The  living  do  not  rule  this  world ;  ah,  no  ! 
It  is  the  dead,  the  dead. 

Shall  I  be  slave  to  every  noble  soul, 

Study  the  dead,  and  to  their  spirits  bend ; 
Or  learn  to  read  my  own  heart's  folded  scroll, 
And  make  self-rule  my  end  ? 


HONORS.  33 

Thought  from  icithont  —  O  shall  I  take  on  trust, 

And  life  from  others  modelled  steal  or  win ; 
Or  shall  I  heave  to  light,  and  clear  of  rust 
My  true  life  from  ivithui. 

O,  let  me  be  myself  !     But  where,  O  where, 
Under  this  heap  of  precedent,  this  mound 
Of  customs,  modes,  and  maxims,  cumbrance  rare, 
Shall  the  Myself  be  found  ? 

0  thou  Myself,  thy  fathers  thee  debarred 

None  of  their  wisdom,  but  their  folly  came 
Therewith  ;  they  smoothed  thy  path,  but  made  it  hard 
For  thee  to  quit  the  same. 

With  glosses  they  obscured  God's  natural  truth. 

And  with  tradition  tarnished  His  revealed ; 
With  vain  protections  they  endangered  youth, 
With  layings  bare  they  sealed. 

What  ailetli  thee,  myself  ?     Alas  !  thy  hands 
Are  tired  with  old  opinions  — heir  and  son, 
Thou  hast  inherited  thy  father's  lands 
And  all  his  debts  thereon. 


34  HONORS. 

O  that  some  power  would  give  me  Adam''s  eyes  ! 

O  for  the  straight  simplicity  of  Eve  ! 
For  I  see  nought,  or  grow,  poor  fool,  too  wise 
With  seeing  to  believe. 

Exemplars  may  be  heaped  until  they  hide 

The  rules  that  they  were  made  to  render  plain ; 
Love  may  be  watched,  her  nature  to  decide, 
Until  love's  self  doth  wane. 

Ah  me  !  and  when  forgotten  and  foregone 
We  leave  the  learning  of  departed  days, 
And  cease  the  generations  past  to  con, 
Their  wisdom  and  their  ways  — 

"WTien  fain  to  learn  we  lean  into  the  dark. 

And  grope  to  feel  the  floor  of  the  abyss. 

Or  fmd  the_  secret  boundary  lines  which  mark 

Where  soul  and  matter  kiss  — 

Fair  world  !  these  puzzled  souls  of  ours  grow  weak 
With  beating  their  bruised  wings  against  the  rim 
That  bounds  their  utmost  flying,  when  they  seek 
The  distant  and  the  dim. 


HONORS.  35 

We  pant,  we  strain  like  birds  against  tlieir  wires  ; 

Are  sick  to  reach  the  vast  and  the  beyond ;  — 
And  what  avails,  if  still  to  our  desires 
Those  far-off  gulfs  respond  ? 

Contentment  comes  not  therefore  ;  still  there  lies 

An  outer  distance  when  the  first  is  hailed, 
And  still  for  ever  yawns  before  our  eyes 
An  UTMOST  —  that  is  veiled. 

Searching  those  edges  of  the  universe, 

We  leave  the  central  fields  a  fallow  part ; 

To  feed  the  eye  more  precious  things  amerce. 

And  starve  the  darkened  heart. 

Then  all  goes  wrong  :  the  old  foundations  rock  ; 
One  scorns  at  him  of  old  who  gazed  unshod ; 
One  striking  with  a  pickaxe  thhiks  the  shock 
Shall  move  the  seat  of  God. 

A  little  way,  a  very  little  way 

(Life  is  so  short),  they  dig  into  the  rind, 
And  they  are  very  sorry,  so  they  say,  — 
Sorry  for  what  they  find. 


36  HONORS. 

But  truth  is  sacred  —  ay,  and  must  be  told : 

There  is  a  story  long  beloved  of  man ; 
We  must  forego  it,  for  it  will  not  hold  — 
Xature  had  no  such  plan. 

And  then,  "  if  God  hath  said  it,"  some  should  cry 

"  We  have  the  story  from  the  fountain-head :  " 
Why,  then,  what  better  than  the  old  reply, 
The  first  ' '  Yea,  hath  God  said  ?  " 

The  garden,  O  the  garden,  must  it  go, 

Source  of  our  hope  and  our  most  dear  regret? 
The  ancient  story,  must  it  no  more  show 
How  men  may  win  it  yet  ? 

And  all  upon  the  Titan  child's  decree, 

The  baby  science,  born  but  yesterday, 
That  in  its  rash  unlearned  infancy 

With  shells  and  stones  at  play, 

And  delving  in  the  outworks  of  this  world. 

And  little  crevices  that  it  could  reach. 
Discovered  certain  bones  laid  up,  and  furled 
Under  an  ancient  beach, 


HONORS.  37 

And  other  waifs  that  lay  to  its  young  mind 

Some  fathoms  lower  than  they  ought  to  lie, 
By  gain  whereof  it  could  not  fail  to  find 
Much  proof  of  ancientry, 

Hints  at  a  pedigree  withdrawn  and  vast. 

Terrible  deeps,  and  old  obscurities, 
Or  soulless  origin,  and  twilight  passed 
In  the  primeval  seas. 

Whereof  it  tells,  as  thinking  it  hath  been 
Of  truth  not  meant  for  man  inheritor  ; 
As  if  this  knowledge  Heaven  had  ne'er  foreseen 
And  not  provided  for  ! 

Knowledge  ordained  to  live  !  although  the  fate 

Of  much  that  went  before  it  was  —  to  die. 
And  be  called  ignorance  by  such  as  wait 
Till  the  next  drift  comes  by. 

O  marvellous  credulity  of  man  ! 

If  God  indeed  kept  secret,  couldst  thou  know 
Or  follow  up  the  mighty  Artisan 
Unless  He  willed  it  so  ? 


38  HONORS. 

And  canst  thou  of  the  Maker  think  in  sooth 

That  of  the  Made  He  shall  be  found  at  fault, 
And  di'eam  of  %vresting  from  Him  hidden  truth 
By  force  or  by  assault  ? 

But  if  He  keeps  not  secret  —  if  tliine  eyes 

He  openeth  to  His  wondrous  work  of  late  — 
Think  how  in  soberness  thy  wisdom  lies, 
And  have  the  grace  to  wait. 

Wait,  nor  against  the  half-learned  lesson  fret, 

ISTor  chide  at  old  belief  as  if  it  erred, 
Because  thou  canst  not  reconcile  as  yet 
The  Worker  and  the  word. 

Either  the  Worker  did  in  ancient  days 

Give  us  the  word,  His  tale  of  love  and  might ; 
(And  if  in  truth  He  gave  it  us,  who  says 
He  did  not  give  it  right  ?) 

Or  else  He  gave  it  not,  and  then  indeed 

We  know  not  if  He  is  —  by  whom  our  years 
Are  portioned,  who  the  orphan  moons  doth  lead, 
And  the  unfathered  spheres. 


HONORS.  39 

We  sit  unowned  upon  our  burial  sod, 

And  know  not  whence  we  come  or  whose  we  be, 
Comfortless  mourners  for  the  mount  of  God, 
The  rocks  of  Calvary : 

Bereft  of  heaven,  and  of  the  long-loved  page 

Wrought  us  by  some  who  thought  with  death  to 
cope  ; 
Despairing  comforters,  from  age  to  age 
Sowing  the  seeds  of  hope ; 

Gracious  deceivers,  who  have  lifted  us 

Out  of  the  slough  where  passed  our  unknown  youth ; 
Beneficent  liars,  who  have  gifted  us 
With  sacred  love  of  tnith ! 

Farewell  to  them :  yet  pause  ere  thou  unmoor 

And  set  thine  ark  adrift  on  unknown  seas ; 
How  wert  thou  bettered  so,  or  more  secure 
Thou,  and  thy  destinies  ? 

And  if  thou  searchest,  and  art  made  to  fear 

Facing  of  unread  riddles  dark  and  hard, 
And  mastering  not  their  majesty  austere, 
Their  meaning  locked  and  barred : 


40  HONORS. 

How  would  it  make  the  weight  and  wonder  less, 

If,  lifted  from  immortal  shoulders  down, 
The  worlds  were  cast  on  seas  of  emptiness 
In  realms  without  a  crown, 

And  (if  there  were  no  God)  were  left  to  rue 

Dominion  of  the  air  and  of  the  fire  ? 
Then  if  there  be  a  God,  "  Let  God  be  true, 
And  every  man  a  liar."' 

But  as  for  me,  I  do  not  speak  as  one 

That  is  exempt :  I  am  with  life  at  feud  : 
My  heart  reproacheth  me,  as  there  were  none 
Of  so  small  gratitude. 

Wherewith  shall  I  console  thee,  heart  o'  mine, 

And  still  thy  yearning  and  resolve  th}-  doubt  ? 
That  which  I  know,  and  that  which  I  divine, 
Alas  !  have  left  thee  out. 

I  have  aspired  to  know  the  might  of  God, 
As  if  the  story  of  His  love  was  furled, 
Nor  sacred  foot  the  grasses  e'er  had  trod 
Of  this  redeemed  world  :  — 


HONORS.  41 

Have  sunk  my  thoughts  as  lead  into  the  deep, 

To  grope  for  that  abyss  whence  evil  grew, 
And  spirits  of  ill,  with  eyes  that  cannot  weep, 
Hungry  and  desolate  flew  ; 

As  if  their  legions  did  not  one  day  crowd 

The  death-pangs  of  the  Conquering  Good  to  see  ! 
As  if  a  sacred  head  had  never  bowed 
In  death  for  man  —  for  me  ; 

Xor  ransomed  back  the  souls  beloved,  the  sons 
Of  men,  from  thraldom  with  the  nether  kings 
In  that  dark  country  where  those  evil  ones 
Trail -their  unhallowed  wings. 

And  didst  Thou  love  the  race  that  loved  not  Thee, 
And  didst  Thou  take  to  heaven  a  human  brow  ? 
Dost  plead  with  man's  voice  by  the  marvellous  sea  ? 
Art  Thou  his  kinsman  now  ? 

O  God,  O  kinsman  loved,  but  not  enough ! 

O  man,  with  eyes  majestic  after  death. 
Whose  feet  have  toiled  along  our  pathways  rough, 
Whose  lips  drawn  human  breath  ! 


42  HONORS. 

By  that  One  likeness  wliicli  is  ours  and  Thine, 
By  that  one  nature  which  doth  hohl  us  kin, 
By  that  high  heaven  where,  sinless,  Thou  dost  shine 
To  draw  us  sinners  in, 

By  Thy  last  silence  in  the  judgment-hall, 

By  long  foreknowledge  of  the  deadly  tree, 
By  darkness,  by  the  wormwood  and  the  gall, 
I  pray  Thee  visit  me. 

Come,  lest  this  heart  should,  cold  and  cast  away. 

Die  ere  the  guest  adored  she  entertain  — 

Lest  eyes  which  never  saw  Thine  earthly  day 

Should  miss  Thy  heavenly  reign. 

Come  weary-eyed  from  seeking  in  the  night 

Thy  wanderers  strayed  upon  the  pathless  wold, 
^Y[m  wounded,  dying,  cry  to  Thee  for  light, 
And  cannot  find  their  fold. 

And  deign,  O  "Watcher,  with  the  sleepless  brow. 

Pathetic  in  its  yearning  —  deign  reply  : 

Is  there,  O  is  there  aught  that  such  as  Thou 

Would  st  take  from  such  as  I  ? 


43 


Are  there  no  briars  across  Thy  pathway  thrust? 

Are  there  no  thorns  that  compass  it  about  ? 
Xor  any  stones  that  Thou  wilt  deign  to  trust 
My  hands  to  gather  out  ? 

O,  if  Thou  wilt,  and  if  such  bliss  might  be, 
It  were  a  cure  for  doubt,  regret,  delay  — 
Let  my  lost  pathway  go  —  what  aileth  me  ?  — 
There  is  a  better  way. 

"Wliat  though  unmarked  the  happy  workman  toil, 

And  break  unthanked  of  man  the  stubborn  clod  ? 
It  is  enough,  for  sacred  is  the  soil. 
Dear  are  the  hills  of  God. 

Far  better  in  its  place  the  lowliest  bird 

Should  sing  aright  to  Him  the  lowliest  song. 
Than  that  a  seraph  strayed  should  take  the  word 
And  sing  His  glory  wrong. 

Friend,  it  is  time  to  work.     I  say  to  thee. 

Thou  dost  all  earthly  good  by  much  excel  ; 
Thou  and  God's  blessing  are  enough  for  me : 
My  work,  my  work  —  farewell ! 


44 


PvEQUIESCAT  IX  PACE! 


^-^. 


^]i^r]  MY  heart,  my  heart  is  sick  awishing 
and  aAvaiting : 
The  lad   took   up  his  knapsack, 
he  went,  he  went  his  way ; 
And  I  looked  on  for  his  coming,  as 
a  prisoner  through  the  grating 
Looks  and  longs  and  longs  and  wishes  for  its  open- 
ing day. 


On  the  wild  purple  mountains,  all  alone  with  no  other, 
The  strong  terrible  mountains,  he  longed,  he  longed 
to  be ; 
And  he  stooped  to  kiss  his  father,  and  he  stooped  to 
kiss  his  mother. 
And  till  I  said  "Adieu,  sweet  Sir,"  he  quite  forgot 
me. 


EEQUIESCAT    IN    PACE  !  45 

He  wrote  of  their  white  raiment,  the  ghostly  capes 
that  screen  them, 
Of  the  storm  winds  that  beat  them,  their  thunder- 
rents  and  scars, 
And  the  paradise   of  purple,  and   the  golden  slopes 
atween  them. 
And  fields,  where  grow  God's  gentian  bells,  and  His 
crocus  stars. 


He  wrote  of  frail  gauzy  clouds,  that  drop  on  them  like 
fleeces. 
And  make  green  their  fir  forests,   and  feed  their 
mosses  hoar ; 
Or  come  sailing  up  the  valleys,  and  get  wrecked  and 
go  to  pieces. 
Like  sloops  against  their  cruel  strength :    then  he 
wrote  no  more. 


O  the  silence  that  came  next,  the  patience  and  long 
aching  ! 
They  never  said  so  much  as  "  He  was  a  dear  loved 
son : '' 


46  REQUIESCAT    LX    PACE  ! 

Xot  the  father  to  the  mother  moaned,  that  dreary  still- 
ness breaking : 
"Ah  !  wherefore  did  he  leave  us  so  — this,  our  only 
one  ?  " 

They  sat  within,  as  waiting,  until  the  neighbors  prayed 
them, 
At   Cromer,    by   the    sea-coast,    'twere    peace   and 
change  to  be ; 
And  to  Cromer,  in  their  patience,   or   that  urgency 
affray cd  them. 
Or  because  the  tidings  tarried,  they  came,  and  took 
me. 

It  was  three  months  and  over  since  the  dear  lad  had 
started : 
On  the  green  downs  at  Cromer  I  sat  to  see  the  view ; 
On  an  open  space  of  herbage,  where  the  ling  and  fern 
had  parted, 
Betwixt  the  tall  white  lighthouse  towers,  the  old  and 
the  new. 

Below  me  lay  the  wide  sea,  the  scarlet  sun  was  stooping. 
And  he  dyed  the  waste  water,  as  with  a  scarlet  dye ; 


EEQUIESCAT    IX    PACE  !  47 

Aiid  he  dyed  the  lighthouse  towers ;  every  bird  with 
white  wing  swooping 
Took  his  colors,  and  the  cliffs  did,  and  the  yawning 
sky. 

Over  grass  came  that  strange  flush,  and  over  ling  and 
heather, 
Over  flocks  of  sheep  and  lambs,  and  over  Cromer 
town ; 
And  each  fihuy  cloudlet  crossing  drifted  like  a  scarlet 
feather 
Torn  from  the  folded  wings  of  clouds,  while  he  set- 
tled do-^Ti. 

"UHien  I  looked,  I  dared  not  sigh:  —  In  the  light  of 
God's  splendor, 
"With  His  daily  blue  and  gold,  who  am  T  ?  what  am  I  ? 
But  that  passion  and  outpouring  seemed  an  awful  sign 
and  tender. 
Like  the  blood  of  the  Redeemer,  shown  on  eartii  and 
sky, 

0  for  comfort,  O  the  waste  of  a  long  doubt  and  trouble  ! 
On  that  sultry  August  eve  trouble  had  made  me 
meek ; 


48  REQUIESCAT    IX   PACE  ! 

I  was  tired  of  my  sorrow  —  O   so   faint,  for  it  was 
double 
In  the  weight  of  its  oppression,  that  I  could  not 
speak ! 

And  a  little  comfort  grew,  while   the  dimmed  eyes 

were   feeding. 

And  the  dull  ears  with  murmur  of  waters  satisfied ; 

But  a  dream  came  slowly  nigh  me,  all  my  thoughts 

and  fancy  leading 

Across  the  bounds  of  waking  life  to  the  other  side. 

And  I  dreamt  that  I  looked  out,  to  the  waste  waters 
turning. 
And  saw  the  flakes  of  scarlet  from  wave  to  wave 
tossed  on ; 
And  the  scarlet  mix  with  azure,  where  a  heap  of  gold 
lay  burning 
On  the  clear  remote  sea  reaches  ;  for  the  sun  was 
gone. 

Then  I  thought  a  far-off  shout  dropped  across  the  still 
water  — 
A  question  as  I  took  it,  for  soon  an  answer  came 


KEQUIESCAT    IX   PACE  !  49 

From  the  tall  white  ruined  lighthouse  :   "  If  it  be  the 
old  man's  daughter 
That  we  wot  of,"'  ran  the  answer,   "what  then  — 
who's  to  blame  ?  " 


I  looked  up  at  the  lighthouse  all  roofless  and  storm- 
broken  : 
A  great  white  bird  sat  on  it,  with  neck  stretched 
to  sea ; 
Unto  somewhat  which  was  sailing  in  a  skiff  the  bird 
had  spoken, 
And  a  trembling  seized  my  spirit,  for  they  talked 
of  me. 


was  the  old  man's  daughter,  the  bird  tvent  on  to 
name  him ; 

"He  loved  to  count  the  starlings  as  he  sat  in  the 
sun ; 
>ong  ago  he  served  with  Nelson,  and  his  story  did  not 

shame  him : 
Ay,  the  old  man  was  a  good  man  —  and  his  work 
was  done." 

4 


50  REQUIESCAT   IN  PACE 


The  skiff  was  like  a  crescent,  ghost  of  some  moon 
departed, 
Frail,  white,  she  rocked  and  curtseyed  as  the  red 
wave  she  crossed, 
And  the  thing  within  sat  paddling,  and  the  crescent 
dipped  and  darted. 
Flying  on,  again  was  shouting,  but  the  words  were 
lost. 


I  said,  "That  thing  is  hooded;  I  could  hear  but  that 
floweth 
The  great  hood  below  its  mouth :  "  then  the  bird 
made  reply, 
*'  If  they  know  not,  more's  the  pity,   for  the   little 
shrewmouse  knoweth, 
And  the  kite  knows,  and  the  eagle,  and  the  glead 
and  pye." 


And  he  stooped  to  whet  his  beak  on  the  stones  of  the 
coping; 
And  when  once  more  the  shout  came,  in  querulous 
tones  he  spake. 


REQUIESCAT   IN   PACE  !  51 

' '  What  I  said  was   '  more's  the  pity ; '  if  the  heart 
be  long  past  hoping, 
Let  it  say  of  death,  '  I  know  it,'  or  doubt  on  and 
break. 


"Men  must   die  —  one    dies  by  day,   and  near  him 
moans  his  mother. 
They  dig  his  grave,  tread  it  down,  and  go  from  it 
full  loth : 
And  one  dies  about  the  midnight,  and  the  wind  moans, 
and  no  other. 
And  the  snows  give  him  a  burial  —  and  God  loves 
them  both. 


"  The  first  hath  no  advantage  —  it  shall  not  soothe^is 
slumber 
That  a  lock  of  his  brown  hair  his  father  aye  shall 
keep ; 
For  the  last,  he  nothing  grudgeth,  it  shall  nought  his 
quiet  cumber. 
That  in  a  golden  mesh  of  iiis  callow  eaglets  sleep. 


52  REQUIESCAT    IX   PACE  ! 

"Men  must  die  when  all  is  said,  e'en  the  kite  and 
glead  know  it, 
And  the  lad"s  father  knew  it,  and  the  lad,  the  lad  too  ; 
It  was  never  kept  a  secret,  waters  bring  it  and  winds 
blow  it. 
And  he  met  it  on  the  mountain  —  why  then  make 
ado  ?  " 

With  that  he  spread  his  white  wings,  and  swept  across 
the  water, 
Lit  upon  the  hooded  head,  and  it  and  all  went  down  ; 
And  they  laughed  as  they  went  under,  and  I  woke, 
"  the  old  man's  daughter," 
And  looked  across  the  slope  of  grass,  and  at  Cro- 
mer town. 

And  I  said,    "Is  that  the  sky,   all   grey  and   silver 
suited  ?  " 
And  I  thought,   "  Is  that  the  sea  that  lies  so  white 
and  wan  ? 
I  have  dreamed  as  I  remember :  give  me  time — I  was 
reputed 
Once   to    have   a   steady   courage  —  O,   I  fear  'tis 
gone ! " 


REQUIESCAT    IN   PACE  !  53 

Aiid  I  said,  "  Is  this  my  heart  ?   if  it  be,  low  'tis  beat- 
ing, 
So  he  lies  on  the  mountain,  hard  by  the  eagles' 
brood ; 
I  have  had  a  dream  this  evening,  while  the  white  and 
gold  were  fleeting, 
But  I  need  not,  need  not  tell  it  —  where  would  be 
the  good  ? 

*'  Where  would  be  the  good  to  them,  his  father  and  his 
mother  ? 
For  the  ghost  of  their  dead  hope  appeareth  to  them 
still. 
While   a  lonely  watch-fire  smoulders,  who  its  dying 
red  would  smother, 
That  gives  what  little  light  there  is  to  a  darksome 
hill?" 

I  rose  up,  I  made  no  moan,  I  did  not  crv  nor  falter. 
But  slowly  in  the  twilight  I  came  to  Cromer  town. 
What  can  wringing  of  the  hands  do   that  which  is 
ordained  to  alter  ? 
He   had   climbed,    had   climbed   the  mountain,  he 
would  ne'er  come  down. 


54  REQUIESCAT    IX    PACE  ! 

But,  O  my  first,  O  my  best,  I  could  not  choose  but 
love  thee ! 
0,  to  be  a  Avild  Avhite  bird,  and  seek  thy  rocky  bed ! 
From  my  breast  Td  give  thee  burial,  pluck  the  down 
and  spread  above  thee  ; 
I  would  sit  and  sing  thy  requiem  on  the  mountain 
head. 

Fare  thee  well,  my  love  of  loves !  would  I  had  died 
before  thee ! 
O,  to  be  at  least  a  cloud,  that  near  thee  I  might 
flow, 
Solemnly  approach  the  mountain,  weep  away  my  being 
o'er  thee. 
And  veil  thy  breast  with  icicles,  and  thy  brow  with 
snow ! 


55 


SUPPER  AT  THE  MILL. 


Mother. 
ELL,  Frances. 

Frances. 
Well,  good  mother,  how  are  you? 
M.    Vm  hearty,  lass,  but  warm; 
the  weather's  warm : 
I  think  'tis  mostly  warm  on  market  days. 
I  met  with  George  behind  the  mill :  said  he, 
"  Mother,  go  in  and  rest  awhile." 

F.  Ay,  do. 

And  stay  to  supper ;  put  your  basket  down. 
M.  Why,  now,  it  is  not  heavy  ? 
F.  Willie,  man, 

Get  up  and  kiss  your  Granny.     Heavy,  no  ! 
Some  call  good  churning  luck  ;  but,  luck  or  skill. 
Your  butter  mostly  comes  as  firm  and  sweet 
As  if  'twas  Christmas.     So  you  sold  it  all? 


56  SUPPER  AT   THE   MILL. 

M.  All  but  this  pat  that  I  put  by  for  George ; 
He  always  loved  my  butter. 

F.  That  he  did. 

ilf.  And  has   your   speckled   hen   brought  off  her 
brood  ? 

F.  Not  yet ;  but  that  old  duck  I  told  you  of, 
She  hatched  eleven  out  of  twelve  to-day. 

Child.  And,  Granny,  they're  so  yellow. 

31.  Ay,  my  lad, 

Yellow  as  gold  —  yellow  as  Willie's  hair.  [mine. 

C.  They're  all  mine,  Granny  —  father  says  they're 

M.  To  think  of  that ! 

F.  Yes,  Granny,  only  think  ! 

Why,  father  means  to  sell  them  w^hen  they're  fat. 
And  put  the  money  in  the  savings  bank. 
And  all  against  our  Willie  goes  to  school : 
But  Willie  would  not  touch  them —  no,  not  he  ; 
He  knows  that  father  would  be  angry  else. 

C.  But  I  want  one  to  play  with  —  O,  I  want 
A  little  yellow  duck  to  take  to  bed ! 

M.  What !  would  ye  rob  the  poor  old  mother,  then  ? 

F.  Xow,  Granny,  if  you'll  hold  the  babe  awhile ; 
'Tis  time  I  took  up  Willie  to  his  crib. 

[Exit  Frances 


SUPPER    AT    THE    ZMILL. 

[^Mother  sings  to  the  infant.'] 
Playing  on  the  virginals, 

Who  but  I  ?     Sae  glad,  sae  free, 
Smelling  for  all  cordials, 

The  green  mint  and  marjorie; 
Set  among  the  budding  broom. 

Kingcup  and  daffodilly, 
By  my  side  I  made  him  room: 

O  love  my  Willie! 

"  Like  me,  love  me,  girl  o'  gowd," 

Sang  he  to  my  nimble  strain; 
Sweet  his  ruddy  lips  o'erflowcd 

Till  my  heartstrings  rang  again: 
B}^  the  broom,  the  bonny  broom, 

Kingcup  and  daffodilly. 
In  my  heart  I  made  him  room : 

O  love  my  AVillie ! 

"Pipe  and  pla}-,  dear  heart,"  sang  he, 

"  I  must  go,  yet  pipe  and  play  ; 
Soon  I'll  come  and  ask  of  thee 

For  an  answer  yea  or  nay  ;  " 
And  I  waited  till  the  flocks 

Panted  in  yon  waters  stilly. 
And  the  corn  stood  in  the  shocks : 

O  love  mv  "Willie! 


58  SUPPER  AT   THE   MILL. 

I  thought  first  when  thou  didst  come 

I  would  Avear  the  ring  for  thee, 
But  the  year  told  out  its  sum 

Ere  again  thou  sat'st  by  me; 
Thou  haclst  nought  to  ask  that  day 

By  kingcup  and  dattbdilly; 
I  said  neither  yea  nor  nay : 

0  love  my  ^Yillie ! 

Enter  George. 

G.  Well,  mother,  'tis  a  fortnight  now,  or  more, 
Since  I  set  eyes  on  you. 

M.  Ay,  George,  my  dear, 

I  reckon  you've  been  busy  :   so  have  we. 

G.  And  how  does  father  ? 

M.  He  gets  through  his  work, 

But  he  grows  stiff,  a  little  stiff,  my  dear ; 
He's  not  so  young,  you  know,  by  twenty  years, 
As  I  am  —  not  so  young  by  twenty  years, 
And  l"m  past  sixty. 

G.  Yet  he's  hale  and  stout. 

And  seems  to  take  a  pleasure  in  his  pipe ; 
And  seems  to  take  a  pleasure  in  his  cows. 
And  a  pride,  too. 

M.  And  well  he  may,  my  dear. 


SUPPER   AT    THE    MILL.  59 

G.  Give  me  the  little  one,  he  tires  your  arm; 
He's  such  a  kicking,  crowing,  wakeful  rogue, 
He  almost  wears  our  lives  out  w^ith  his  noise 
Just  at  day-dawning,  when  we  wish  to  sleep. 
AVhat !  you  young  villain,  would  you  clench  your  fist 
In  father's  curls  ?  a  dusty  father,  sure, 
And  you're  as  clean  as  wax. 

Ay,  you  may  laugh  ; 
But  if  you  live  a  seven  years  more  or  so. 
These  hands  of  yours  will  all  be  brown  and  scratched 
With  climbing  after  nest-eggs.     They'll  go  down 
As  many  rat-holes  as  are  round  the  mere  ; 
And  you'll  love  mud,  all  manner  of  mud  and  dirt 
As  your  father  did  afore  you,  and  you'll  wade 
After  young  water-birds  ;  and  you'll  get  bogged 
Setting  of  eel-traps,  and  you'll  spoil  your  clothes, 
And  come  home  torn  and  dripping :  then,  you  know, 
You'll  feel  the  stick  —  you'll  feel  the  stick,  my  lad ! 

Enier  Frances. 

F.  You  should  not  talk  so  to  the  blessed  babe  — 
How  can  you,  George?  why,  he  may  be  in  heaven 
Before  the  time  you  tell  of. 

M.  Look  at  him  : 


60  SUPPER  AT   THE   ^aLL. 

So  earnest,  such  an  eager  pair  of  eyes  ! 
He  thrives,  my  dear. 

jr^  Yes,  that  he  does,  thank  God 

My  children  are  all  strong. 

M.  'Tis  much  to  say ; 

Sick  children  fret  their  mothers"  hearts  to  shreds, 
And  do  no  credit  to  their  keep  nor  care. 
Where  is  your  little  lass  ? 

F.  Your  daughter  came 

And  begged  her  of  us  for  a  week  or  so. 

31.  Well,  Avell,  she  might  be  wiser,  that  she  might, 
For  she  can  sit  at  ease  and  pay  her  way ; 
A  sober  husband,  too  —  a  cheerful  man  — 
Honest  as  ever  stepped,  and  fond  of  her; 
Yet  she  is  never  easy,  never  glad, 
Because  she  has  not  children.     Well-a-day  ! 
If  she  could  know  how  hard  her  mother  worked, 
And  what  ado  I  had,  and  what  a  moil 
With  my  half-dozen  !     Children,  ay,  forsooth. 
They  bring  their  own  love  with  them  when  they  come, 
But  if  they  come  not  there  is  peace  and  rest ; 
The  pretty  lambs  !  and  yet  she  cries  for  more  : 
Why,  the  world's  full  of  them,  and  so  is  heaven  — 
Thev  are  not  rare. 


SUPPER   AT   THE   MILL.  61 

G.  No,  mother,  not  at  all ; 

But  Hannah  must  not  keep  our  Fanny  long  — 
She  spoils  her. 

M.  Ah  !  folks  spoil  their  children  now ; 

When  I  was  a  young  woman  'twas  not  so  ; 
We  made  our  children  fear  us,  made  them  work. 
Kept  them  in  order. 

G.  AVere  not  proud  of  them — • 

Eh,  mother.^ 

M.  I  set  store  by  mine,  'tis  true. 

But  then  I  had  good  cause. 

G.  My  lad,  dye  hear? 

Your  Granny  was  not  proud,  by  no  means  proud ! 
She  never  spoilt  your  father  —  no,  not  she, 
Xor  eA  er  made  him  sing  at  harvest-home, 
Xor  at  the  forge,  nor  at  the  baker's  shop, 
Nor  to  the  doctor  while  she  lay  abed 
Sick,  and  he  crept  up  stairs  to  share  her  broth. 

M.  Well,  well,  you  were  my  youngest,  and,  what's 
more. 
Your  father  loved  to  hear  you  sing  —  he  did. 
Although,  good  man,  he  could  not  tell  one  tune 
From  the  other. 


62  SUPPER   AT    THE   MILL. 

jp^  No,  he  got  his  voice  from  you : 

Do  use  it,  George,  and  send  the  child  to  sleep. 

G.  What  must  I  sing  ? 

p^  The  ballad  of  the  man 

That  is  so  shy  he  cannot  speak  his  mind. 

O.  Ay,  of  the  purple  grapes  and  crimson  leaves ; 
But,  mother,  put  your  shawl  and  bonnet  olf. 
And,  Frances,  lass,  I  brought  some  cresses  in  : 
Just  wash  them,  toast  the  bacon,  break  some  eggs. 
And  let's  to  supper  shortly. 

{Sings.'] 

My  neighbor  White  —  we  met  to-day  — 
He  always  had  a  cheerful  way, 

As  if  he  breathed  at  ease : 
My  neighbor  White  lives  down  the  glade, 
And  I  live  higher,  in  the  shade 

Of  my  old  walnut-trees. 

So  many  lads  and  lasses  small, 
To  feed  them  all,  to  clothe  them  all, 

Must  surely  tax  his  wit ; 
I  see  his  thatch  when  I  look  out. 
His  branching  roses  creep  about, 

And  vines  half  smother  it. 


SUPPER   AT    THE    MILL.  63 

There  white-haired  urchins  climb  his  eaves, 
And  little  Avatch-fires  heap  with  leaves, 

And  milky  filberts  hoard ; 
And  there  his  oldest  daughter  stands 
With  downcast  eyes  and  skilful  hands 

Before  her  ironing-board. 

She  comforts  all  her  mother's  days, 
And  with  her  sweet  obedient  ways 

She  makes  her  labor  light ; 
So  sweet  to  hear,  so  fair  to  see ! 
0,  she  is  much  too  good  for  me, 

That  lovely  Lettice  White ! 

'Tis  hard  to  feel  oneself  a  fool ! 

With  that  same  lass  I  Avent  to  school  — 

I  then  Avas  great  and  Avise ; 
She  read  upon  an  easier  book, 
And  I  —  I  never  cared  to  look 

Into  her  shy  blue  eyes. 

And  now  I  know  they  must  be  there, 
SAveet  eyes,  behind  those  lashes  fair 

That  Avill  not  raise  their  rim: 
If  maids  be  shy,  he  cures  aa'Iio  can ; 
But  if  a  man  be  shy  —  a  man  — 

Why  then  the  worse  for  him ! 


64:  SUPPER   AT    THE   MILL. 

My  mother  cries,  "  For  such  a  lad 
A  wife  is  easy  to  be  had 

And  always  to  be  found ; 
A  finer  scholar  scarce  can  be, 
And  for  a  foot  and  leg,"  says  she, 

''He  beats  the  country  round! 

"  My  handsome  boy  must  sto^  his  head 
To  clear  her  door  whom  he  would  wed." 
Weak  praise,  but  fondly  sung ! 
"  0  mother!  scholars  sometimes  fail  — 
And  Avhat  can  foot  and  leg  avail 
To  him  that  wants  a  tongue?  " 

When  by  her  ironing-board  I  sit, 
Her  little  sisters  round  me  flit, 

And  bring  me  forth  their  store ; 
Dark  cluster  grapes  of  dusty  blue, 
And  small  sw^eet  apples,  bright  of  hue 

And  crimson  to  the  core. 

But  she  abideth  silent,  fair; 
All  shaded  b}'  her  flaxen  hair 

The  blushes  come  and  go; 
I  look,  and  I  no  more  can  speak 
Than  the  red  sun  that  on  her  cheek 

Smiles  as  he  lieth  low. 


SUrPER   AT    THE   MILL.  65 

Sometimes  the  roses  by  the  latch, 
Or  scarlet  vine-leaves  from  her  thatch, 

Come  sailing  down  like  birds ; 
When  from  their  drifts  her  board  I  clear. 
She  thanks  me,  but  I  scarce  can  hear 

The  shyly  uttered  words. 

Oft  have  I  wooed  sweet  Lettice  White 
By  daylight  and  by  candlelight 

When  we  two  were  apart. 
Some  better  day  come  on  apace, 
And  let  me  tell  her  face  to  face, 

"  Maiden,  thou  hast  ray  heart." 

How  gently  rock  yon  poplars  high 
Against  the  reach  of  primrose  sky 

With  heaven's  pale  candles  stored! 
She  sees  them  all,  sweet  Lettice  White; 
I'll  e'en  go  sit  again  to-night 

Beside  her  ironing  board ! 

Why,  you  young  rascal !  who  would  think  it  now .'' 
No  sooner  do  I  stop  than  you  look  up. 
What  would  you  have  your  poor  old  father  do  ? 
'Twas  a  brave  song,  long-winded,  and  not  loud. 
M.  He  heard  the  bacon  sputter  on  the  fork, 
5 


66  SUPPER   AT    THE   MILL. 

And  heai'd  his  mothers  step  across  the  floor. 
Where  did  you  get  that  song  ?  —  'tis  new  to  me. 

G.  1  bought  it  of  a  pedler. 

31.  Did  you  so  ? 

Well,  you  were  always  for  the  love-songs,  George. 

F.  My  dear,  just  lay  his  head  upon  your  arm, 
And  if  you'll  pace  and  sing  two  minutes  more 
He  needs  must  sleep  —  his  eyes  are  full  of  sleep. 

G.  Do  you  sing,  mother. 

F.  Ay,  good  mother,  do  ; 
'Tis  long  since  we  have  heard  you. 

M.  Like  enough ; 

Pm  an  old  woman,  and  the  girls  and  lads 
I  used  to  sing  to  sleep  o'ertop  me  now. 
What  should  I  sing  for  ? 

G.  Why,  to  pleasure  us. 
Sing  in  the  chimney  corner,  where  you  sit, 
And  I'll  pace  gently  with  the  little  one. 

[3fother  sinffs.'] 

When  sparrows  build,  and  the  leaves  break  forth, 

My  old  sorrow  wakes  and  cries, 
For  I  know  there  is  dawn  in  the  far,  far  north, 

And  a  scarlet  sun  doth  rise ; 


SUPPER   AT    THE    MILL.  67 

Like  a  scarlet  fleece  the  snow-field  spreads, 

And  the  icy  founts  run  free, 
And  the  bergs  begin  to  bow  their  heads, 

And  plunge,  and  sail  in  the  sea. 

0  my  lost  love,  and  my  oa\ti,  own  love. 

And  my  love  that  loved  me  so ! 
Is  there  never  a  chink  in  the  world  above 

"Where  they  listen  for  words  from  below  ? 
Nay,  I  spoke  once,  and  I  grieved  thee  sore, 

I  remember  all  that  I  said, 
And  now  thou  wilt  hear  me  no  more  —  no  more 

Till  the  sea  gives  up  her  dead. 

Thou  didst  set  thy  foot  on  the  ship,  and  sail 

To  the  ice-fields  and  the  snow ; 
Thou  wert  sad,  for  thy  love  did  nought  avail, 

And  the  end  I  could  not  know ; 
How  could  I  tell  I  should  love  thee  to-day. 

Whom  that  day  I  held  not  dear  ? 
How  could  I  know  I  should  love  thee  away 

When  I  did  not  love  thee  anear  ? 

We  shall  walk  no  more  through  the  sodden  plain 

With  the  faded  bents  o'erspread. 
We  shall  stand  no  more  by  the  seething  main 

While  the  dark  ■\\Tack  drives  o'erhead; 


68  SUPPER   AT    THE    MILL. 

We  shall  part  no  more  in  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

Where  thy  last  farewell  was  said : 
But  perhaps  I  shall  meet  thee  and  know  thee  again 

When  the  sea  gives  up  her  dead. 

F.  Asleep  at  last,  and  time  he  was,  indeed. 
Turn  back  the  cradle-quilt,  and  lav  him  in ; 
And,  mother,  will  you  please  to  draw  your  chair? 
The  supper's  ready. 


69 


SCHOLAE  AXD   CAEPEXTER. 

HILE  ripening  corn  grew  thick  and 

deep, 
And  here  and  there  men  stood  to 

reap, 
One  morn  I  put  my  heart  to  sleep, 
And  to  the  lanes  I  took  my  way. 
The  goldfinch  on  a  thistle-head 
Stood  scattering  seedlets  while  she  fed ; 
The  wrens  their  pretty  gossip  spread. 
Or  joined  a  random  roundelay. 


On  hanging  cobwebs  shone  the  dew, 
And  thick  the  wayside  clovers  grew ; 
The  feeding  bee  had  much  to  do. 

So  fast  did  honey-drops  exude  : 
She  sucked  and  murmured,  and  was  gone, 
And  lit  on  other  blooms  anon, 
The  while  I  learned  a  lesson  on 

The  source  and  sense  of  quietude. 


70  SCHOLAR   AND    CARPENTER. 

For  sheep-bells  chiming  from  a  wold, 
Or  bleat  of  lamb  withiii  its  fold, 
Or  cooing  of  love-legends  old 

To  dove-wives  make  not  quiet  less  ; 
Ecstatic  chirp  of  winged  thing. 
Or  bubbling  of  the  water-spring, 
Are  sounds  that  more  than  silence  bring 

Itself  and  its  delightsomeness. 


"While  thus  I  went  to  gladness  fain, 
I  had  but  walked  a  mile  or  twain 
Before  my  heart  woke  up  again, 

As  dreaming  she  had  slept  too  late ; 
The  morning  freshness  that  she  viewed 
"With  her  own  meanings  she  endued, 
And  touched  with  her  solicitude 

The  natures  she  did  meditate. 


"  If  Cjuiet  is,  for  it  I  wait ; 
To  it,  ah !  let  me  wed  my  fate. 
And,  like  a  sad  wife,  supplicate 
My  roving  lord  no  more  to  flee  ; 


SCHOLAR   AND    CARPENTER.  71 

If  leisure  is  —  but,  ah !  'tis  not  — 
'Tis  long  past  praying  for,  God  wot ; 
The  fashion  of  it  men  forgot. 
About  the  age  of  chivalry. 


'•  Sweet  is  the  leisure  of  the  bird ; 
She  craves  no  time  for  work  deferred ; 
Her  wings  are  not  to  aching  stirred 

Providing  for  her  helpless  ones. 
Fair  is  the  leisure  of  the  wheat ; 
All  night  the  damps  about  it  fleet ; 
All  day  it  basketh  in  the  heat, 

And  grows,  and  whispers  orisons. 


*  *  Grand  is  the  leisure  of  the  earth ; 
She  gives  her  happy  myriads  birth. 
And  after  harvest  fears  not  dearth. 

But  goes  to  sleep  in  snow-wreaths  dim. 
Dread  is  the  leisure  up  above 
The  while  He  sits  whose  name  is  Love, 
And  waits,  as  Noah  did,  for  the  dove, 

To  wit  if  she  would  fly  to  him. 


72  SCHOLAR   AND    CAllPENTER. 

"  He  waits  for  us,  while,  houseless  things. 
We  beat  about  with  bruised  wings 
On  the  dark  floods  and  water-springs, 

The  ruined  world,  the  desolate  sea ; 
With  open  windows  from  the  prime 
All  night,  all  day,  He  waits  sublime, 
Until  the  fulness  of  the  time 

Decreed  from  His  eternity. 


Where  is  our  leisure  ?  —  Give  us  rest. 

Where  is  the  quiet  we  possessed  ? 

We  must  have  had  it  once  —  were  blest 

With  peace  whose  phantoms  yet  entice. 
Sorely  the  mother  of  mankind 
Longed  for  the  garden  left  behind ; 
For  we  still  prove  some  yearnings  blind 

Inherited  from  Paradise." 


'  Hold,  heart ! "  I  cried ;  *'  for  trouble  sleeps  ; 
I  hear  no  sound  of  aught  that  weeps  ; 
I  will  not  look  into  thy  deeps  — 
I  am  afraid,  I  am  afraid  !  " 


SCHOLAR   AND    CARPENTER.  7iJ 

"  Afraid  !  "  she  saith  ;  **  and  yet  'tis  true 
That  what  man  dreads  he  still  should  view  — 
Should  do  the  thing  he  fears  to  do, 
And  storm  the  ghosts  in  ambuscade." 


'  What  good  ?  "  I  sigh.     "  Was  reason  meant 
To  straighten  branches  that  are  bent, 
Or  soothe  an  ancient  discontent, 

The  instinct  of  a  race  dethroned  ? 
Ah  !  doubly  should  that  instinct  go 
Must  the  four  rivers  cease  to  flow, 
Kor  yield  those  rumors  sweet  and  low 

Wherewith  man's  life  is  undertoned." 


■  Yet  had  I  but  the  past,"  she  cries, 
"  And  it  was  lost,  I  would  arise 
And  comfort  me  some  other  wise. 

But  more  than  loss  about  me  clings  : 
I  am  but  restless  with  my  race  ; 
The  whispers  from  a  heavenly  place. 
Once  dropped  among  us,  seem  to  chase 
Rest  with  their  prophet-visitings. 


SCHOLAR   AXD    C.VPvPENTER. 

"The  race  is  like  a  child,  as  yet 
Too  young  for  all  things  to  be  set 
Plainly  before  him  with  no  let 

Or  hindrance  meet  for  his  degree ; 
But  ne'erthcless  by  much  too  old 
Not  to  perceive  that  men  withhold 
More  of  the  story  than  is  told, 
And  so  infer  a  mystery. 


'  If  the  Celestials  daily  fly 
With  messages  on  missions  high, 
And  float,  our  masts  and  turrets  nigh, 

Conversing  on  Heaven's 'great  intents  ; 
What  wonder  hints  of  coming  things. 
Whereto  man's  hope  and  yearning  clings. 
Should  drop  like  feathers  from  their  wdngs 

And  give  us  vague  presentiments  ? 


'  And  as  the  waxing  moon  can  take 
The  tidal  waters  in  her  wake 
And  lead  them  round  and  round  to  break 
Obedient  to  her  drawings  dim  ; 


SCHOI^^R    AND    CARPENTER.  75 

So  may  the  movements  of  His  mind, 
The  first  Great  Father  of  mankind, 
Affect  with  answering  movements  blind, 
And  draw  the  souls  that  breathe  by  Him. 


'  "We  had  a  message  long  ago 
That  like  a  river  peace  should  flow, 
And  Eden  bloom  again  below. 

We  heard,  and  we  began  to  wait : 
Full  soon  that  message  men  foro-ot : 
Yet  waiting  is  their  destined  lot. 
And  waiting  for  they  know  not  what 

They  strive  with  yearnings  passionate. 


'  Eegret  and  faith  alike  enchain  ; 
There  was  a  loss,  there  comes  a  gain  ; 
We  stand  at  fault  betwixt  the  twain. 

And  that  is  veiled  for  which  we  pant. 
Our  lives  are  short,  our  ten  times  seven ; 
We  think  the  councils  held  in  heaven 
Sit  long,  ere  yet  that  blissful  leaven 

Work  peace  amongst  the  militant. 


SCHOLAR   AND    CARPENTER. 

* '  Then  we  blame  God  that  sm  should  be 

Adam  began  it  at  the  tree, 

'  The  woman  whom  Thou  gavest  me  ; ' 

And  we  adopt  his  dark  device. 
O  long  Thou  tarriest !  come  and  reign, 
And  bring  forgiveness  in  Thy  train. 
And  give  us  in  our  hands  again 

The  apples  of  Thy  Paradise." 


"Far-seeing  heart !  if  that  be  all, 
The  happy  things  that  did  not  fall," 
I  sighed,  "  from  every  coppice  call 

They  never  from  that  garden  went. 
Behold  their  joy,  so  comfort  thee, 
Behold  the  blossom  and  the  bee. 
For  they  are  yet  as  good  and  free 

As  when  poor  Eve  was  imiocent. 


"But  reason  thus  :   '  If  we  sank  low, 
If  the  lost  garden  we  forego. 
Each  in  his  day,  nor  ever  know 
But  in  our  poet  souls  its  face  ; 


SCHOLAR   A2sD    CARPENTER.  77 

Yet  we  may  rise  until  we  reach 
A  height  untold  of  in  its  speech  — 
A  lesson  that  it  could  not  teach 

Learn  in  this  darker  dweUing-place.'' 


' '  And  reason  on  :  '  We  take  the  spoil ; 
Loss  made  us  poets,  and  the  soil 
Taught  us  great  patience  in  our  toil, 

And  life  is  kin  to  God  through  death. 
Christ  were  not  One  with  us  but  so, 
And  if  bereft  of  Him  we  go  ; 
Dearer  the  heavenly  mansions  grow, 

His  home,  to  man  that  wandereth.'' 


"  Content  thee  so,  and  ease  thy  smart." 
"With  that  she  slept  again,  my  heart. 
And  I  admired  and  took  ray  part 

With  crowds  of  happy  things  the  while : 
With  open  velvet  butterflies 
That  SAvung  and  spread  their  peacock  eyes. 
As  if  they  cared  no  more  to  rise 

From  off  their  beds -of  camomile. 


SCHOLAR   AND    CARPENTER. 

The  blackcaps  in  an  orchard  met, 
Praising  the  berries  while  they  ate  : 
The  finch  that  liew  her  beak  to  whet 

Before  she  joined  them  on  the  tree  ; 
The  water  mouse  among  the  reeds  — 
His  bright  eyes  glancing  black  as  beads, 
So  happy  with  a  bunch  of  seeds  — 

I  felt  their  gladness  heartily. 


But  I  came  on,  I  smelt  the  hay, 
And  up  the  hills  I  took  my  way, 
And  down  them  still  made  holiday. 

And  walked,  and  wearied  not  a  whit ; 
But  ever  with  the  lane  I  went 
Until  it  dropped  with  steep  descent, 
Cut  deep  into  the  rock,  a  tent 

Of  maple  branches  roofing  it. 


Adown  the  rock  small  runlets  wept. 
And  reckless  ivies  leaned  and  crept, 
And  little  spots  of  sunshine  slept 

On  its  brown  steeps  and  made  them  fair ; 


SCHOLAR    AND    CARPENTER.  79 

And  broader  beams  athwart  it  shot, 
Where  martins  cheeped  in  many  a  knot, 
For  they  had  ta'en  a  sandy  plot 
And  scooped  another  Petra  there. 


And  deeper  down,  hemmed  in  and  hid 
From  upper  light  and  life  amid 
The  swallows  gossiping,  I  thrid 

Its  mazes,  till  the  dipping  land 
Sank  to  the  level  of  my  lane  : 
That  was  the  last  hill  of  the  chain, 
And  fair  below  I  saw  the  plain 

That  seemed  cold  cheer  to  reprimand. 


Half-drowned  in  sleepy  peace  it  lay. 
As  satiate  with  the  boundless  play 
Of  sunshine  on  its  green  array. 

And  clear-cut  hills  of  gloomy  blue 
To  keep  it  safe  rose  up  behind, 
As  with  a  charmed  ring  to  bind 
The  grassy  sea,  where  clouds  might  find 

A  place  to  bring  their  shadows  to. 


80  SCHOLAR   AXD    CARPENTER. 

I  said,  and  blest  that  pastoral  grace, 

'*  How  sweet  thou  art,  thou  sunny  place  ! 

Thy  God  approves  thy  smiling  face  :  " 

But  straight  my  heart  put  in  her  word ; 
She  said,  "  Albeit  thy  face  I  bless, 
There  have  been  times,  sweet  wilderness, 
"When  I  have  wished  to  love  thee  less, 

Such  pangs  thy  smile  administered." 


But,  lo  !  I  reached  a  field  of  wheat, 
And  by  its  gate  full  clear  and  sweet 
A  workman  sang,  while  at  his  feet 

Played  a  young  child,  all  life  and  stir- 
A  three  years'  child,  with  rosy  lip. 
Who  in  the  song  had  partnership. 
Made  happy  with  each  falling  chip 

Dropped  by  the  busy  carpenter. 


This,  reared  a  new  gate  for  the  old. 
And  loud  the  tuneful  measure  rolled, 
But  stopped  as  I  came  up  to  hold 
Some  kindly  talk  of  passing  things. 


SCHOLAR   AXD   CARPENTER.  81 

Brave  were  his  eyes,  and  frank  kis  mien ; 
Of  all  men's  faces,  calm  or  keen, 
A  better  I  have  never  seen 
In  all  my  lonely  wanderings. 


And  how  it  was  I  scarce  can  tell. 
We  seemed  to  please  each  other  well ; 
I  lingered  till  a  noonday  bell 

Had  sounded,  and  his  task  was  done. 
An  oak  had  screened  us  from  the  heat ; 
And  'neath  it  in  the  standing  wheat, 
A  cradle  and  a  fair  retreat, 

Full  sweetly  slept  the  little  one. 


The  workman  rested  from  his  stroke. 
And  manly  were  the  words  he  spoke. 
Until  the  smiling  babe  awoke 

And  prayed  to  him  for  milk  and  food. 
Then  to  a  runlet  forth  he  went, 
And  brought  a  wallet  from  the  bent, 
And  bade  me  to  the  meal,  intent 

I  should  not  c^uit  his  neighborhood. 


82  SCIIOL.VU   AND    CAUPENTER. 

*'  For  here,"  said  lie,  "  are  bread  and  beer, 
And  meat  enough  to  make  good  cheer ; 
Sir,  eat  with  me,  and  have  no  Tear, 

For  none  upon  my  work  depend, 
Saving  this  child  ;  and  I  may  say 
That  I  am  rich,  for  every  day 
I  put  by  somewhat ;  therefore  stay, 

And  to  such  eating  condescend.'" 


We  ate.     The  child  —  child  fair  to  see  — 
Began  to  cling  about  his  knee, 
And  he  down  leaning  fatherly 

Received  some  softly-prattled  prayer ; 
He  smiled  as  if  to  list  were  balm, 
And  with  liis  labor-hardened  palm 
Pushed  from  the  ba])y-forehead  calm 

Those  shining  locks  that  clustered  there. 


The  rosy  mouth  made  fresh  essay  — 
•'  O  would  he  sing  or  would  he  play  ?  " 
I  looked,  my  thought  would  make  its  way 
"  Fair  is  vour  child  efface  and  limb. 


SCHOLAR    AND    CARPENTER.  83 

The  round  blue  eyes  full  sweetly  shine." 
He  answered  me  with  glance  benign  — 
Ay,  Sir ;  but  he  is  none  of  mine, 
Although  I  set  great  store  by  him.'" 


With  that,  as  if  his  heart  was  fain 
To  open — nathless  not  complain  — 
He  let  my  quiet  questions  gain 

His  story  :   "  Xot  of  kin  to  me," 
Repeating;   "  but  asleep,  awake. 
For  worse,  for  better,  him  I  take, 
To  cherish  for  my  dead  wife''s  sake, 

And  count  him  as  her  legacy. 


*'  I  married  with  the  sweetest  lass 
That  ever  stepped  on  meadow  grass ; 
That  ever  at  her  looking-glass 

Some  pleasure  took,  some  natural  care  ; 
That  ever  swept  a  cottage  floor 
And  worked  all  day,  nor  e'er  gave  o'er 
Till  eve,  then  watched  beside  the  door 

Till  her  good  man  should  meet  her  there. 


84  SCHOLAR   AND    CARPENTER. 

"  But  I  lost  all  in  its  fresh  prime  ; 
My  wife  fell  ill  before  lier  time  — 
Just  as  the  bells  began  to  chime 

One  Sunday  morn.     By  next  day's  light 
Her  little  babe  was  born  and  dead, 
And  she,  unconscious  what  she  said. 
With  feeble  hands  about  her  spread, 

Sought  it  with  yearnings  infinite. 


' '  With  mother-longing  still  beguiled, 
And  lost  in  fever-fancies  wild, 
She  piteously  bemoaned  her  child 

That  we  had  stolen,  she  said,  away. 
And  ten  sad  days  she  sighed  to  me, 
*  I  cannot  rest  until  I  see 
My  pretty  one  !     I  think  that  he 

Smiled  in  my  face  but  yesterday.' 


"  Then  she  would  change,  and  faintly  try 
To  sing  some  tender  lullaby  ; 
And  '  Ah  ! '  would  moan,  '  if  I  should  die, 
AVho,  sweetest  babe,  would  cherish  thee  ? 


SCHOLAR   AND    CARPENTER.  85 

Then  weep,  '  My  pretty  boy  is  grown  ; 
With  tender  feet  on  the  cold  stone 
He  stands,  for  he  can  stand  alone. 
And  no  one  leads  him  motherly.' 


"  Then  she  with  dying  movements  slow 
Would  seem  to  knit,  or  seem  to  sew : 
'  His  feet  are  bare,  he  must  not  go 

Unshod  : '  and  as  her  death  drew  on, 
*  O  little  baby,'  she  would  sigh ; 
'  My  little  child,  I  cannot  die 
Till  I  have  you  to  slumber  nigh  — 

You,  you  to  set  mine  eyes  upon.' 


"  When  she  spake  thus,  and  moaning  lay. 
They  said,  '  She  cannot  pass  away, 
So  sore  she  longs  : '  and  as  the  day 

Broke  on  the  hills,  I  left  her  side. 
Mourning  along  this  lane  I  went ; 
Some  travelling  folk  had  pitched  their  tent 
Up  yonder  :  there  a  woman,  bent 

With  age,  sat  meanly  canopied. 


86  SCHOl^lR   AND   CARPENTER. 

"  A  twelvemonths'  child  was  at  her  side : 
'  "Whose  infant  may  that  be  ?  '  I  cried. 
'  His  that  will  own  him,'  she  replied ; 

'  His  mothers  dead,  no  worse  could  be.' 
*  Since  you  can  give  —  or  else  I  erred  — 
See,  you  are  taken  at  your  word,' 
Quoth  I ;   '  That  child  is  mine  ;  I  heard, 

And  own  him  I     Rise,  and  give  him  me.' 


*'  She  rose  amazed,  but  cursed  me  too ; 
She  could  not  hold  such  luck  for  true, 
But  gave  him  soon,  with  small  ado. 

I  laid  him  by  my  Lucy's  side  : 
Close  to  her  face  that  baby  crept. 
And  stroked  it,  and  the  sweet  soul  wept ; 
Then,  wliile  upon  her  arm  he  slept. 

She  passed,  for  she  was  satisfied. 


**  I  loved  her  well,  I  wept  her  sore, 

And  when  her  funeral  left  my  door 

I  thonaht  tliat  T  should  never  more 

Feel  any  plcas-irc  near  me  glow; 


SCllOL-VR   AND    CAltPEXTER.  87 

But  I  have  learned,  though  this  I  had, 
'Tis  sometniies  natural  to  be  glad, 
And  no  man  can  be  always  sad 
Unless  he  -wills  to  have  it  so. 


**  Oh,  I  had  heavy  nights  at  fii-st. 
And  daily  wakening  was  the  worst : 
For  then  my  grief  arose,  and  burst 

Like  something  fresh  upon  my  head; 
Yet  when  less  keen  it  seemed  to  grow, 
I  was  not  pleased  —  I  wished  to  go 
Mourning  adown  this  vale  of  woe. 

For  all  my  life  uneomforted. 


"  I  grudged  myself  the  lightsome  air, 
That  makes  man  cheerful  unaware  ; 
When  comfort  came,  I  did  not  care 

To  take  it  in,  to  feel  it  stir : 
And  yet  God  took  with  me  His  plan, 
And  now  for  my  appointed  span 
I  think  T  am  a  haippler  man 

For  haviii  ;■  wed  and  wept  for  her. 


88  SCHOL.U4   AIsD   CARPENTER . 

*'  Because  no  natural  tie  remains, 
On  this  small  thing  I  spend  my  gains ; 
God  makes  me  love  him  for  my  pains, 

And  binds  me  so  to  wholesome  care : 
I  would  not  lose  from  my  past  life 
That  happy  year,  that  happy  wife  ! 
Yet  now  I  wage  no  useless  strife 

AVith  feelings  blithe  and  debonair. 


"I  have  the  courage  to  be  gay, 
Although  she  lieth  lapped  away 
Under  the  daisies,  for  I  say, 

*  Thou  wouldst  be  glad  if  thou  couldst  see  : ' 
My  constant  thought  makes  manifest 
I  have  not  what  I  love  the  best. 
But  I  nuist  thank  God  for  the  rest 

"While  I  hold  heaven  a  verity." 


He  rose,  upon  his  shoulder  set 
The  child,  and  while  with  vague  regret 
We  parted,  pleased  that  we  had  met, 
Mv  heart  did  with  herself  confer: 


SCHOLAR  AND   CARPENTER.  89 

With  wholesome  shame  she  did  repent 
Her  reasonings  idly  eloquent, 
And  said,  "  I  might  be  more  content : 
But  God  go  with  the  carpenter." 


90 


THE  STARTS   M0XU:MENT. 


IX   THE   CONCLUDING  PART   OF  A  DISCOURSE  ON  FAME. 


[He  thinks.'] 


F  there  be  memory  in  the  world  to 
come, 
If  thought  recur  to  some  things 
silenced  here, 
Then  shall  the  deep  heart  be  no 
longer  dumb, 
But  find  expression  in  that  happier  sphere ; 
It  shall  not  be  denied  their  utmost  sum 

Of  love,  to  speak  without  or  fault  or  fear, 
But  utter  to  the  harp  with  changes  sweet 
Words  that,  forbidden  still,  then  heaven  were  incom- 
plete. 


THE    star's    monument.  91 

\_Ee  speaks. '\ 

isTow  let  us  talk  about  the  ancient  days, 

And  things  which  happened  long  before  our  birth : 
It  is  a  pity  to  lament  that  praise 

Should  be  no  shadow  in  the  train  of  worth. 
What  is  it,  Madam,  that  your  heart  dismays  ? 

Why  murmur  at  the  course  of  this  vast  earth? 
Think  rather  of  the  work  than  of  the  praise ; 
Come,  we  wiU  talk  about  the  ancient  days. 

There  was  a  Poet,  Madam,  once  (said  he)  ; 

I  will  relate  his  story  to  you  now. 
While  through  the  branches  of  this  apple-tree 

Some  spots  of  sunshhie  flicker  on  your  brow; 
While  every  flower  hath  on  its  breast  a  bee. 

And  every  bird  in  stirring  doth  endow 
The  grass  with  falling  blooms  that  smoothly  glide, 
As  ships  drop  down  a  river  with  the  tide. 

For  telling  of  his  tale  no  fitter  place 

Than  this  old  orchard,  sloping  to  the  west ; 

Through  its  pink  dome  of  blossom  I  can  trace 
Some  overlying  azure  ;  for  the  rest. 


92  THE  star's  monument. 

These  flowery  branches  round  us  interlace  ; 

The  ground  is  hollowed  like  a  mossy  nest : 
"WTio  talks  of  fame  while  the  religious  spring 
Offers  the  incense  of  her  blossominof  ? 


There  was  a  Poet,  Madam,  once  (said  he) , 
Who,  while  he  walked  at  sundown  in  a  lane, 

Took  to  his  heart  the  hope  that  destiny 
Had  singled  him  this  guerdon  to  obtain, 

That  by  the  poAver  of  his  sweet  minstrelsy 

Some  hearts  for  truth  and  goodness  he  should  gain, 

And  charm  some  groyellers  to  uplift  their  eyes 

And  suddenly  Avax  conscious  of  the  skies. 


"  Master,  good  e'en  to  ye  !"  a  woodman  said, 
AVho  the  low  hedge  was  trimming  with  his  shears. 

"  This  hour  is  fine  '"  —  the  Poet  bowed  his  head. 

"  More  fine,*''  he  thought,  "  O  friend  !  to  me  appears 

The  sunset  than  to  you ;  finer  the  spread 

Of  orange  lustre  through  these  azure  spheres. 

Where  little  clouds  lie  still,  like  flocks  of  sheep. 

Or  yessels  sailing  in  God's  other  deep. 


THE  star's  monument.  93 

O  finer  far  !     What  work  so  high  as  mine, 

Interpreter  betwixt  the  world  and  man, 
Nature's  ungathered  pearls  to  set  and  shrine. 

The  mystery  she  wraps  her  in  to  scan ; 
Her  unsyllabic  voices  to  combine, 

And  serve  her  with  such  love  as  poets  can ; 
With  mortal  words,  her  chant  of  praise  to  bind, 
Then  die,  and  leave  the  poem  to  mankind  ? 


"  O  fair,  O  fine,  O  lot  to  be  desired ! 

Early  and  late  my  heart  appeals  to  me. 
And  says,  '  O  work,  O  will  — Thou  man,  be  fired 

To  earn  this  lot,'  —  she  says,  '  I  would  not  be 
A  worker  for  mine  own  bread,  or  one  hired 

For  mine  own  profit.  O,  I  would  be  free 
To  work  for  others  ;  love  so  earned  of  them 
Should  be  my  wages  and  my  diadem. 


♦*  '  Then  when  I  died  I  should  not  fall,'  says  she, 
'  Like  dropping  flowers  that  no  man  noticeth. 

But  like  a  great  branch  of  some  stately  tree 
Rent  in  a  tempest,  and  flung  down  to  death. 


94  THE  star's  monument. 

Tliick  with  green  leafage  —  so  that  piteously 

Each  passer  by  that  ruin  shuddereth, 
And  saith,  The  gap  this  branch  hath  left  is  wide ; 
The  loss  thereof  can  never  be  supplied.'" 


But,  Madam,  while  the  Poet  pondered  so, 
Toward  the  leafy  hedge  he  turned  his  eye, 

And  saw  two  slender  branches  that  did  grow. 
And  from  it  rising  spring  and  flourish  high  : 

Their  tops  were  twined  together  fast,  and,  lo. 
Their  shadow  crossed  the  path  as  he  went  by 

The  shadow  of  a  wild  rose  and  a  briar, 

And  it  was  shaj)ed  in  semblance  like  a  lyre. 


In  sooth,  a  lyre  !  and  as  the  soft  air  played, 
Those  branches  stirred,  but  did  not  disunite. 

"  O  emblem  meet  for  me  !  "  the  Poet  said  ; 
"Ay,  I  accept  and  own  thee  for  my  right; 

The  shadowy  lyre  across  my  feet  is  laid. 

Distinct  though  frail,  and  clear  with  crimson  light : 

Fast  is  it  twined  to  bear  the  windy  strain. 

And,  supple,  it  will  bend  and  rise  again. 


THE  star's  monibient.  95 

"This  lyre  is  cast  across  the  dusty  way, 

The  common  j)ath  that  common  men  pursue ; 

I  crave  like  blessing  for  my  shadowy  lay, 
Life's  trodden  paths  with  beauty  to  renew, 

And  cheer  the  eve  of  many  a  toil-stained  day. 
Light  it,  old  sun,  wet  it,  thou  common  dew, 

That  'neath  men's  feet  its  image  still  may  be 

While  yet  it  waves  above  them,  living  lyre,  like  thee  ! " 


But  even  as  the  Poet  spoke,  behold 
He  lifted  up  his  face  toward  the  sky  ; 

The  ruddy  sun  dipt  under  the  grey  wold, 

His  shadowy  lyre  was  gone  ;  and,  passing  by, 

The  woodman  lifting  up  his  shears,  was  bold 
Their  temper  on  those  branches  twain  to  try, 

And  all  their  loveliness  and  leafage  sweet 

Fell  in  the  pathway,  at  the  Poet's  feet. 


"  Ah  !  my  fair  emblem  that  I  chose,"  quoth  he, 

' '  That  for  myself  I  coveted  but  now, 
Too  soon,  methinks,  thou  hast  been  false  to  me  ; 

The  lyre  from  pathway  fades,  the  light  from  brow." 


96  THE  star's  monument. 

Then  straightway  turned  he  from  it  hastily, 

As  dream  that  waking  sense  will  disallow  ; 
And  while  the  highway  heavenward  paled  apace, 
He  went  on  westward  to  his  dwelling-place. 

lie  went  on  steadily,  while  far  and  fast 

The  summer  darkness  dropped  upon  the  world, 

A  gentle  air  among  the  cloudlets  passed 

And  fanned  away  their  crimson ;  then  it  curled 

The  yellow  poppies  in  the  field,  and  cast 
A  dimness  on  the  grasses,  for  it  furled 

Their  daisies,  and  swept  out  the  purple  stain 

That  eve  had  left  upon  the  pastoral  plain. 

He  reached  his  city.     Lo  !  the  darkened  street 
"Where  he  abode  was  full  of  gazing  crowds ; 

He  heard  the  muffled  tread  of  many  feet ; 
A  multitude  stood  gazing  at  the  clouds. 

"What   mark   ye  there,"'  said   he,    "and   wherefore 
meet  ? 
Only  a  passing  mist  the  heaven  o''ershrouds  ; 

It  breaks,  it  parts,  it  drifts  like  scattered  spars  — 

What  lies  behind  it  but  the  nisrhtlv  stars  ?  " 


THE  star's  monument.  97 

Then  did  the  gazing  crowd  to  him  aver 

They  sought  a  lamp  in  heaven  whose  light  was  hid  ; 
For  that  in  sooth  an  old  Astronomer 

Down  from  his  roof  had  rushed  into  their  mid, 
Frighted,  and  fain  with  others  to  confer. 

That  he  had  cried,  "  O  sirs  !  "  —  and  upward  bid 
Them  gaze  —  "  O  sirs,  a  light  is  quenched  afar  ; 
Look  up,  my  masters,  we  have  lost  a  star ! " 


The  people  pointed,  and  the  Poet's  eyes 
Flew  upward,  where  a  gleaming  sisterhood 

Swam  in  the  dewy  heaven.     The  very  skies 
Were  mutable  ;  for  all-amazed  he  stood 

To  see  that  truly  not  in  any  wise 

He  could  behold  them  as  of  old,  nor  could 

His  eyes  receive  the  whole  whereof  he  wot. 

But  when  he  told  them  over,  one  was  not. 


"While  yet  he  gazed  and  pondered  reverently. 
The  fickle  folk  began  to  move  away. 

"It  is  but  one  star  less  for  us  to  see ; 

And  what  does  one  star  signify  ?  "  quoth  they  ; 


98  THE  star's  monument. 

"  The  heavens  are  full  of  them."     "  But,  ah  !  "  said  he, 
' '  That  star  was  bright  while  yet  she  lasted."    ' '  Ay  ! " 
They  answered  :   "  praise  her,  Poet,  an'  ye  will : 
Some  are  now  shining  that  are  brighter  still." 


**  Poor  star  !  to  be  disparaged  so  soon 

On  her  Avithdrawal,"  thus  the  Poet  sighed ; 

"  That  men  should  miss,  and  straight  deny  her  noon 
Its  brightness  !  "     But  the  people  in  their  pride 

Said,  "  How  are  we  beholden?  'twas  no  boon 
She  gave.     Her  nature  'twas  to  shine  so  wide : 

She  could  not  choose  but  shine,  nor  could  we  know 

Such  star  had  ever  dwelt  in  heaven  but  so." 


The  Poet  answered  sadly,  "  That  is  true  !" 
And  then  he  thought  upon  unthankfulness  ; 

While  some  went  homeward ;  and  the  residue, 
Reflecting  that  the  stars  are  numberless. 

Mourned  that  man's  daylight  hours  should  be  so  few, 
So  short  the  shining  that  his  path  may  bless : 

To  nearer  themes  then  tuned  their  willing  lips. 

And  thought  no  more  upon  the  star's  eclipse. 


THE  star's  monument.  99 

But  lie,  the  Poet,  could  not  rest  content 
Till  he  had  found  that  old  Astronomer ; 

Therefore  at  midnight  to  his  house  he  went 
And  prayed  him  be  his  tale's  interpreter. 

And  yet  upon  the  heaven  his  eyes  he  bent, 
Hearing  the  marvel ;  yet  he  sought  for  her 

That  was  awanting,  in  the  hope  her  face 

Once  more  might  fill  its  reft  abiding-place. 


Then  said  the  old  Astronomer :   "My  son, 

I  sat  alone  upon  my  roof  to-night ; 
I  saw  the  stars  come  forth,  and  scarcely  shun 

To  fringe  the  edges  of  the  western  light ; 
1  marked  those  ancient  clusters  one  by  one, 

The  same  that  blessed  our  old  forefather's  sight 
For  God  alone  is  older  —  none  but  He 
Can  charge  the  stars  with  mutability  : 


"  The  elders  of  the  night,  the  steadfast  stars. 
The  old,  old  stars  which  God  has  let  us  see, 

That  they  might  be  our  soul's  auxiliars. 

And  help  us  to  the  truth  how  young  we  be  -^ 


100  THE    star's    monument. 

God's  youngest,  latest  born,  as  if,  some  spars 
And  a  little  clay  being  over  of  them  —  He 
Had  made  our  world  and  us  thereof,  yet  given, 
To  humble  us,  the  sight  of  His  great  heaven. 


"  But  ah  !  my  son,  to-night  mine  eyes  have  seen 
The  death  of  light,  the  end  of  old  renown ; 

A  shrinking  back  of  glory  that  had  been, 
A  dread  eclipse  before  the  EternaPs  frown. 

How  soon  a  little  grass  will  grow  between 
These  eyes  and  those  appointed  to  look  down 

Upon  a  world  that  was  not  made  on  high 

Till  the  last  scenes  of  their  long  empiry ! 


"  To-night  that  shining  cluster  now  despoiled 
Lay  in  day's  wake  a  perfect  sisterhood  ; 

Sweet  was  its  light  to  me  that  long  had  toiled. 
It  gleamed  and  trembled  o'er  the  distant  wood ; 

Blov>'n  in  a  pile  the  clouds  from  it  recoiled, 
Cool  twilight  up  the  sky  her  way  made  good ; 

I  saw,  but  not  believed  —  it  was  so  strange  — 

That  one  of  those  same  stars  had  suffered  change. 


THE    star's    monument,  101 

'  The  darkness  gathered,  and  methonght  she  spread, 
Wrapped  in  a  reddish  haze  that  waxed  and  waned  ; 
But  notwithstanding  to  myself  I  said — 

The  stars  are  changeless  ;    sure   some  mote  hath 
stained 
Mine  eyes,  and  her  fair  glory  minished.' 

Of  age  and  failing  vision  I  complained, 
And  thought  '  some  vapor  in  the  heavens  doth  swim, 
That  makes  her  look  so  large  and  yet  so  dim.' 

But  I  gazed  round,  and  all  her  lustrous  peers 

In  her  red  presence  showed  but  wan  and  white ; 
For  like  a  living  coal  beheld  through  tears 

She  glowed  and  quivered  with  a  gloomy  light : 
Methought  she  trembled,  as  all  sick  through  fears, 

Helpless,  appalled,  appealing  to  the  night ; 
Like  one  who  throws  his  arms  up  to  the  sky 
And  bows  down  suffering,  hopeless  of  reply. 

"  At  length,  as  if  an  everlasting  Hand 
Had  taken  hold  upon  her  in  her  place, 

And  swiftly,  like  a  golden  grain  of  sand. 
Through  all  the  deep  infinitudes  of  space 


102  THE  star's  monument. 

Was  drawing  her  —  God's  truth  as  here  I  stand 

Backward  and  inward  to  itself;  her  face 
Fast  lessened,  lessened,  till  it  looked  no  more 
Than  smallest  atom  on  a  boundless  shore. 


"  And  she  that  was  so  fair,  I  saw  her  lie, 
The  smallest  thing  in  God's  great  firmament, 

Till  night  was  at  the  darkest,  and  on  high 

Her  sisters  glittered,  though  her  light  was  spent ; 

I  strained,  to  follow  her,  each  aching  eye, 
So  swiftly  at  her  IMaker's  will  she  went ; 

I  looked  again  —  I  looked  —  the  star  was  gone, 

And  nothin*::  marked  in  heaven  where  she  had  shone." 


"  Gone  ! "  said  the  Poet,  "  and  about  to  be 
Forgotten  :  O,  how  sad  a  fate  is  hers  ! " 

"  How  is  it  sad,  my  son  ?  "  all  reverently 

The  old  man  answered  ;   "  thougli  she  ministers 

No  longer  with  her  lamp  to  me  and  thee. 
She  has  fulfilled  her  mission.     God  transfers 

Or  dims  her  ray ;  yet  was  she  blest  as  bright, 

For  all  her  life  was  spent  in  giving  liglit." 


THE  st.vr's  monument.  103 

*'  Her  mission  she  fulfilled  assuredly,"'' 
The  Poet  cried :   "  but,  O  unhappy  star ! 

None  praise  and  few  will  bear  in  memory 

The  name  she  went  by.     O,  from  far,  from  far 

Comes  down,  methinks,  her  mournful  voice  to  me, 
Full  of  regrets  that  men  so  thankless  are." 

So  said,  he  told  that  old  Astronomer 

All  that  the  gazing  crowd  had  said  of  her. 


And  he  went  on  to  speak  in  bitter  wise, 
As  one  who  seems  to  tell  another's  fate, 

But  feels  that  nearer  meaning  underlies, . 
And  points  its  sadness  to  his  own  estate : 

"  If  such  be  the  reward,"  he  said  with  sighs, 
*'Envy  to  earn  for  love,  for  goodness  hate  — 

If  such  be  thy  reward,  hard  case  is  thine ! 

It  had  been  better  for  thee  not  to  shine. 


*'  If  to  reflect  a  light  that  is  divine 

Makes  that  which  doth  reflect  it  better  seen, 
And  if  to  see  is  to  contemn  the  shrine, 

'Twere  surely  better  it  had  never  been : 


104  THE  star's  monument. 

It  had  been  better  for  her  not  to  shixe, 

And  for  me  not  to  sing.  Better,  I  ween, 
For  us  to  yield  no  more  that  radiance  bright. 
For  them,  to  lack  the  light  than  scorn  the  light." 


Strange  words  were  those  from  Poet  lips  (said  he)  ; 

And  then  he  paused,  and  sighed,  and  turned  to  look 
Upon  the  lady's  downcast  eyes,  and  see 

How  fast  the  honey  bees  in  settling  shook 
Those  apple  blossoms  on  her  from  the  tree ; 

He  watched  her  busy  fingers  as  they  took 
And  slipped  the  knotted  thread,  and  thought  how  much 
He  would  have  siven  that  hand  to  hold  —  to  touch. 


At  length,  as  suddenly  become  aware 

Of  this  long  pause,  she  lifted  up  her  face, 

And  he  withdrew  his  eyes  —  she  looked  so  fair 
And  cold,  he  thought,  in  her  unconscious  grace. 

"Ah!  little  dreams  she  of  the  restless  care,"' 

He  thought,  "  that  makes  my  heart  to  throb  apace  : 

Though  we  this  morning  part,  the  knowledge  sends 

Xo  thrill  to  her  calm  pidse  —  we  are  but  friends." 


THE  star's  monument.  105 

All  I  turret  clock  (he  thought) ,  I  would  thv  hand 
Were  hid  behind  yon  towering  maple-trees  ! 

All !  tell-tale  shadow,  but  one  moment  stand  — 
Dark  shadow  —  fast  advancing  to  my  knees  ; 

Ah  !  foolish  heart  (he  thought) ,  that  vainly  planned 
By  feigning  gladness  to  arrive  at  ease ; 

Ah  !  painful  hour,  yet  pain  to  think  it  ends  ; 

I  must  remember  that  w^e  are  but  friends. 


And  while  the  knotted  thread  moved  to  and  fro, 
In  sweet  regretful  tones  that  lady  said : 

"  It  seemeth  that  the  fame  you  would  forego 
The  Poet  whom  you  tell  of  coveted ; 

But  I  would  fain,  methinks,  his  story  know. 

And  was  he  loved? "   said  she,  "  or  was  he  wed ? 

And  had  he  friends  ?  "     "  One  friend,  perhaps,"  said  he 

"  But  for  the  rest,  I  pray  you  let  it  be." 


Ah!  little  bird  (he  thought),  most  patient  bird. 
Breasting  thy  speckled  eggs  the  long  day  through. 

By  so  much  as  my  reason  is  preferred 

Above  thine  instinct,  I  my  work  would  do 


lOG  THE  star's  monument. 

Bettor  than  tliou  dost  thine.     Thou  hast  not  stirred 

This  hour  thy  wing.     Ah !  russet  bird,  I  sue 
For  a  like  patience  to  wear  through  these  hours  — 
Bird  on  thy  nest  among  the  apjile-flowers. 


I  will  not  speak  —  I  will  not  speak  to  thee, 
My  star  !  and  soon  to  be  my  lost,  lost  star. 

The  sweetest,  first,  that  eycr  shone  on  me, 
So  high  aboye  me  and  beyond  so  far ; 

I  can  forego  thee,  but  not  bear  to  see 

My  loye,  like  rising  mist,  thy  lustre  mar : 

That  were  a  base  return  for  thy  sweet  light. 

Shine,  thouirh  I  neyer  more  shall  see  that  thou  art  briirht. 


Xever  !     'Tis  certain  that  no  hope  is  —  none  ! 

Xo  hope  for  me,  and  yet  for  thee  no  fear. 
The  hardest  part  of  my  hard  task  is  done ; 

Thy  calm  assures  me  that  I  am  not  dear ; 
Though  far  and  fast  the  rapid  moments  run. 

Thy  bosom  heayeth  not,  thine  eyes  are  clear ; 
Silent,  perhaps  a  little  sad  at  heart 
She  is.     I  am  her  friend,  and  I  depart. 


THE  star's  monument.  107 

Silent  slie  had  been,  but  she  raised  her  face  ; 

"And  will  you  end,"  said  she,  "  this  half-told  tale  ?  " 
"Yes,  it  were  best,"  he  answered  her.     "  The  place 

Where  I  left  off  was  where  he  felt  to  fail 
His  courage.  Madam,  through  the  fancy  base 

That  they  who  love,  endure,  or  work,  may  rail 
And  cease  —  if  all  their  love,  the  works  they  wrought, 
And  their  endurance,  men  have  set  at  nou2:ht." 


"  It  had  been  better  for  me  not  to  sing," 
My  Poet  said,  ' '  and  for  her  not  to  shine  ;  " 

But  him  the  old  man  answered,  sorrowing, 
"  My  son,  did  God  who  made  her,  the  Divine 

Lighter  of  suns,  when  down  to  yon  bright  ring 
He  cast  her,  like  some  gleaming  almandine. 

And  set  her  in  her  place,  begirt  with  rays, 

Say  unto  her  '  Give  light,'  or  say  '  Earn  praise  ? ' " 


The  Poet  said,  "  He  made  her  to  give  light." 

"  My  son,"  the  old  man  answered,  "  blest  are  such  ; 

A  blessed  lot  is  theirs  ;  but  if  each  night 

Mankind  had  praised  her  radiance  —  inasmuch 


108  tup:  star's  monument. 

As  praise  had  never  made  it  wax  more  bright, 

And  cannot  now  rekindle  Avith  its  touch 
Her  lost  effulgence,  it  is  nought.     I  wot 
That  praise  was  not  her  blessing  nor  her  lot." 


"  A}',"  said  the  Poet,  "  I  my  words  abjure. 
And  I  repent  me  that  I  uttered  them  ; 

But  by  her  light  and  by  its  forfeiture 
She  shall  not  pass  without  her  requiem. 

Though  my  name  perish,  yet  shall  hers  endure ; 
Though  I  should  be  forgotten,  she,  lost  gem, 

Shall  be  rememl)ered ;    though  she  sought  not  fame, 

It  shall  be  busy  with  her  beauteous  name. 


"  For  I  will  raise  in  her  bright  memory, 
Lost  now  on  earth,  a  lasting  monument, 

And  graven  on  it  shall  recorde<l  be 

That  all  her  rays  to  light  mankind  were  spent ; 

And  I  will  sing  albeit  none  heedeth  me. 
On  her  exemplar  being  still  intent : 

While  in  men's  sight  shall  stand  the  record  thus 

'  So  lone;  as  she  did  last  she  lijrhted  us.'  " 


THE    star's    MO^'UMENT.  109 

So  said,  he  raised,  according  to  his  vow. 

On  the  green  grass,  where  oft  his  townsfolk  met. 

Under  the  shadow  of  a  leafy  bough 
That  leaned  toward  a  singing  rivulet, 

One  pure  Avhite  stone,  whereon,  like  crown  on  brow. 
The  image  of  the  vanished  star  was  set ; 

And  this  was  graven  on  the  pure  white  stone 

In  golden  letters  —  "  While  she  lived  she  shone.'' 

Madam,  I  cannot  give  this  story  well  — 

My  heart  is  beating  to  another  chime ; 
My  voice  must  needs  a  different  cadence  swell ; 

It  is  yon  singing  bird,  which  all  the  time 
AYooeth  his  nested  mate,  that  doth  dispel 

My  thoughts.    What,  deem  you,  could  a  lover's  rhyme 
The  sweetness  of  that  passionate  lay  excel  ? 
O  soft,  O  low  her  voice  —  ''I  cannot  tell." 

[He  thinks.^ 
The  old  man  —  aye  he  spoke,  he  was  not  hard; 

"  She  was  his  joy,"  he  said,  "his  comforter. 
But  he  would  trust  me.     I  was  not  debarred 

Whate'er  my  heart  approved  to  say  to  her." 


110  THE    STAli's   MONUMENT. 

Approved  !     O  torn  and  tempted  and  ill-starred 
And  breaking  heart,  approve  not  nor  demur ; 
It  is  the  serpent  that  beguileth  thee 
With  "  God  doth  know"  beneath  this  apple-tree. 

Yea,  God  doth  know,  and  only  God  doth  know. 

Have  pity,  God,  my  spirit  groans  to  Thee  ! 
I  bear  Thy  curse  primeval,  and  I  go  ; 

But  heavier  than  on  Adam  falls  on  me 
My  tillage  of  the  Avil(lerne.<s  ;  for,  lo  ! 

I  leave  behind  the  woman,  and  I  see 
As  'twere  the  gates  of  Eden  closing  o'er 
To  hide  her  from  my  sight  for  evermore. 

\^ne  s]7eaJiS.'] 
I  am  a  fool,  with  sudden  start  he  cried, 

To  let  the  song-bird  work  me  such  unrest  ; 
If  I  break  off  again,  I  pray  you  chide, 

For  morning  fleeteth,  with  my  tale  at  best 
Half  told.    That  white  stone.  Madam,  gleamed  beside 

The  little  rivulet,  and  all  men  pressed 
To  read  the  lost  one's  story  traced  thereon. 
The  golden  legend —  "  While  she  lived  she  shone." 


THE   star's   monument.  Ill 

And,  Madam,  when  the  Poet  heard  them  read. 
And  children  spell  the  letters  softly  through, 

It  may  be  that  he  felt  at  heart  some  need, 
Some  craving  to  be  thus  remembered  too ; 

It  may  be  that  he  wondered  if  indeed 

He  must  die  wholly  when  he  passed  from  view ; 

It  may  be,  wished,  when  death  his  eyes  made  dim, 

That  some  kind  hand  would  raise  such  stone  for  him. 


But  shortly,  as  there  comes  to  most  of  us. 

There  came  to  him  the  need  to  quit  his  home : 

To  tell  you  why  were  simply  hazardous. 

What  said  I,  Madam  ?  —  men  were  made  to  roam 

My  meaning  is.     It  hath  been  always  thus  : 
They  are  athirst  for  mountains  and  sea  foam ; 

Heirs  of  this  world,  what  wonder  if  perchance 

They  long  to  see  their  grand  inheritance  ? 


He  left  his  city,  and  Avent  forth  to  teach 
Mankind,  his  peers,  the  hidden  harmony 

That  underlies  God's  discords,  and  to  reach 
And  touch  the  master-strinir  that  like  a  sio-h 


112  THE   star's   monument. 

Thrills  in  their  souls,  as  if  it  -would  beseech 

Some  hand  to  sound  it,  and  to  satisfy 
Its  yearninfr  for  expression :  but  no  word 
Till  poet  touch  it  hath  to  make  its  music  heard. 

[He  thinks.^ 
I  know  that  God  is  ^ood,  though  evil  dweUs 

Among  us,  and  doth  all  things  holiest  share  ; 
That  there  is  joy  in  heaven,  while  yet  our  knells 

Sound  for  the  souls  which  He  has  summoned  there  ; 
That  painful  love  unsatisfied  hath  spells 

Earned  by  its  smart  to  soothe  its  fellow's  care  : 
But  yet  this  atom  cannot  in  the  whole 
Forget  itself — it  aches  a  separate  soul. 

[He  spealcs.'] 
But,  Madam,  to  my  Poet  I  return. 

With  his  sweet  cadences  of  woven  words 
He  made  their  rude  untutored  hearts  to  bum 

And  melt  like  gold  refined.     Xo  brooding  birds 
Sing  better  of  the  love  that  doth  sojourn 

Hid  in  the  nest  of  home,  which  softly  girds 
The  beating  heart  of  life  :  and,  strait  though  it  be. 
Is  straitness  better  t;ia:i  v.  id-j  liljertv. 


THE    star's   monument.  113 

H :  taught  tiiein,  and  they  learned,  but  not  the  less 
II    ;  tined  unconscious  whence  that  lore  they  drew, 

Bu.  lu  coined  that  of  their  nadve  nobleness 

Some  loftj-  thoughts,  that  he  had  planted,  grew ; 

His  glorious  maxims  in  a  lowly  dress. 

Like  seed  sown  broadcast,  sprung  in  all  men's  -dew. 

The  sower,  passing  onward,  was  not  known. 

And  all  men  reaped  the  harvest  as  their  own. 


It  may  be.  ]\Iadam,  that  those  ballads  sweet, 
TTbose  rhythmic  measures  yesterday  we  sung, 

"^^l.i' :h  lime  and  changes  make  not  obsolete. 
But  (as  a  river  bears  down  blossoms  flong 

Upon  its  breast)  take  with  them  while  they  fleet - 
Ir  may  be  from  his  lyre  that  first  they  sprang : 

B.::  who  can  tell,  since  work  surviveth  fame?  — 

The  rhvme  is  left,  but  lost  the  Poet's  name. 


He  worked,  and  braTely  he  fulfilled  his  trust — 
So  long  he  wandered  sowing  worthy  seed. 

Watering  of  wayside  buds  that  were  adust. 
And  touehinu  for  the  common  ear  his  reed — 


114  THE   star's   monument. 

So  long  to  wear  away  the  cankering  rust 

That  dulls  the  gold  of  life  —  so  long  to  plead 
With  sweetest  music  for  all  souls  oppressed. 
That  he  was  old  ere  he  had  thought  of  rest. 


Old  and  grey-headed,  leaning  on  a  staff, 
To  that  great  city  of  his  birth  he  came, 

And  at  its  gates  he  paused  with  wondering  laugh 
To  think  how  changed  were  all  his  thoughts  of  fame 

Since  first  he  carved  the  golden  epitaph 
To  keep  in  memory  a  worthy  name. 

And  thought  forgetfulness  had  been  its  doom 

But  for  a  few  brijiht  letters  on  a  tomb. 


The  old  Astronomer  had  long  since  died ; 

The  friends  of  youth  were  gone  and  far  dispersed ; 
Strange  were  the  domes  that  rose  on  every  side  ; 

Strange  fountains  on  his  wondering  vision  burst ; 
The  men  of  yesterday  their  business  plied  ; 

No  face  was  left  that  he  had  known  at  first ; 
And  in  the  city  gardens,  lo  !  he  sees 
The  saplings  that  he  set  are  stately  trees. 


THE    star's    MO-NUMENT.  115 

Upon  the  grass  beneath  their  welcome  shade, 
Behold !  he  marks  the  fair  white  monument, 

And  on  its  face  the  golden  words  displayed, 
For  sixty  years  their  lustre  have  not  spent ; 

He  sitteth  by  it  and  is  not  afraid, 
But  in  its  shadow  he  is  well  content ; 

And  envies  not,  though  bright  their  gleamings  are. 

The  golden  letters  of  the  vanished  star. 


He  gazeth  up  ;  exceeding  bright  appears 
That  golden  legend  to  his  aged  eyes, 

For  they  are  dazzled  till  they  fill  with  tears, 
And  his  lost  Youth  doth  like  a  vision  rise  ; 

She  saith  to  him,  "  In  all  these  toilsome  years. 
What  hast  thou  won  by  work  or  enterprise  ? 

What  hast  thou  won  to  make  amends  to  thee. 

As  thou  didst  swear  to  do,  for  loss  of  me? 


"  O  man  !  O  white-haired  man  ! "  the  vision  said, 
"  Since  we  two  sat  beside  this  monument 

Life's  clearest  hues  are  all  evanished, 

The  golden  wealth  thou  hadst  of  me  is  spent ; 


116    .  THE    star's   monument. 

The  wind  hath  swept  thy  flowers,  their  leaves  are  shed  ; 

The  music  is  played  out  that  with  thee  went." 
"  Peace,  peace  ! "  he  cried  ;  "  I  lost  thee,  but,  in  truth, 
There  are  worse  losses  than  the  loss  of  vouth." 


He  said  not  what  those  losses  were  —  but  I  — 
But  I  must  leave  them,  for  the  time  draws  near. 

Some  lose  not  only  joy,  but  memory 
Of  how  it  felt :  not  love  that  was  so  dear 

Lose  only,  but  the  steadfast  certainty 

That  once  they  had  it ;  doubt  comes  on,  then  fear. 

And  after  that  despondency.     I  wis 

The  Poet  must  have  meant  such  loss  as  this. 


But  while  he  sat  and  pondered  on  his  youth, 
He  said,  "  It  did  one  deed  that  doth  remain, 

For  it  preserved  the  memory  and  the  truth 
Of  her  that  now  doth  neither  set  nor  wane. 

But  shine  in  all  men's  thoughts ;  nor  sink  forsooth, 
And  be  forgotten  like  the  summer  rain. 

O,  it  is  good  that  man  should  not  forget 

Or  benefits  foregone  or  brig-htness  set !  " 


THE    STAli'8    MONUMENT.  117 

He  spoke  and  said,  "  My  lot  contenteth  me  ; 

1  aui  right  glad  for  this  her  worthy  fame  ; 
That  which  was  good  and  great  I  lain  would  see 

Drawn  with  a  halo  round  what  rests  —  its  name." 
This  while  the  Foet  said,  behold,  there  came 

A  workman  with  his  tools  anear  the  tree. 
And  when  he  read  the  words  he  paused  awhile 
And  pondered  on  them  with  a  wondering  smile. 


And  then  he  said,  "  I  pray  you.  Sir,  what  mean 
The  golden  letters  of  this  monument  ?  " 

In  wonder  quoth  the  Poet,  "  Hast  thou  been 
A  dweller  near  at  hand,  and  their  intent 

Hast  neither  heard  by  voice  of  fame,  nor  seen 
The  marble  earlier?  "     "  Ay,"  said  he,  and  leant 

Upon  his  spade  to  hear  the  tale,  then  sigh, 

And  say  it  was  a  marvel,  and  pass  by. 


Then  said  the  Poet,  "  Tins  is  strange  to  me." 
But  as  he  mused,  with  trouble  in  his  mind, 

A  band  of  maids  approached  him  leisurely, 
Like  vessels  sailing  with  a  favoring  wind  ; 


118  THE   star's   monument. 

A.nd  of  their  rosy  lips  requested  he, 

As  one  that  for  a  doubt  would  solving  find, 
The  tale,  if  tale  there  were,  of  that  white  stone. 
And  those  fair  letters  —  "  While  she  lived  she  shone." 


Then  like  a  fleet  that  floats  becalmed  they  stay. 

"  O,  Sir,"  saith  one,  "  this  monument  is  old; 
But  we  have  heard  our  virtuous  mothers  say 

That  by  their  mothers  thus  the  tale  was  told : 
A  Poet  made  it ;  journeying  then  away, 

lie  left  us  ;  and  though  some  the  meaning  hold 
For  other  than  the  ancient  one,  yet  we 
Receive  this  legend  for  a  certainty :  — 


**  There  was  a  lily  once,  most  purely  white. 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  these  boughs  it  grew; 

Its  starry  blossom  it  unclosed  by  night. 

And  a  young  Poet  loved  its  shape  and  hue. 

He  watched  it  nightly,  'twas  so  fair  a  sight, 
Until  a  stormy  wind  arose  and  blew, 

And  when  he  came  once  more  his  flower  to  greet 

Its  fallen  petals  drifted  to  his  feet. 


THE    star's   monument.  119 

"  And  for  his  beautiful  white  lily's  sake, 
That  she  might  be  remembered  where  her  scent 

Had  been  right  sweet,  he  said  that  he  would  make 
In  her  dear  memory  a  monument : 

For  she  was  purer  than  a  driven  flake 

Of  snow,  and  in  her  grace  most  excellent ; 

The  loveliest  life  that  death  did  ever  mar, 

As  beautiful  to  gaze  on  as  a  star." 


**  I  thank  you,  maid,"  the  Poet  answered  her, 
"  And  I  am  glad  that  I  have  heard  your  tale." 

With  that  they  passed  ;  and  as  an  inlander, 
Having  heard  breakers  raging  in  a  gale 

And  falling  down  in  thunder,  will  aver 
That  still,  when  far  away  in  grassy  vale. 

He  seems  to  hear  those  seething  waters  bound, 

So  in  his  ears  the  maiden's  voice  did  sound. 


He  leaned  his  face  upon  his  hand,  and  thought 
And  thought,  until  a  youth  came  by  that  way; 

And  once  again  of  him  the  Poet  sought 
The  story  of  the  star.     But,  well-a-day  ! 


120  THE    .ST-Ufs    MONUMENT. 

He  said,  '*  The  meaning  with  much  doubt  is  fraught, 

The  sense  thereof  can  no  man  surely  say ; 
For  still  tradition  sways  the  common  ear, 
That  of  a  truth  a  star  did  disappear. 


*'  But  they  who  look  beneath  the  outer  shell 
That  wraps  the  '  kernel  of  the  people's  lore,' 

Hold  THAT  for  superstition  ;  and  they  tell 
That  seven  lovely  sisters  dwelt  of  yore 

In  this  old  city,  Avhere  it  so  befell 

That  one  a  Poet  loved ;  that,  furthermore, 

As  stars  above  us  she  was  pure  and  good, 

And  fairest  of  that  beauteous  sisterhood. 


"  So  beautiful  they  were,  those  virgins  seven. 

That  all  men  called  them  clustered  stars  in  song. 
Forgetful  that  the  stars  abide  in  heaven  : 
But  woman  bideth  not  beneath  it  long  ; 
For  O,  alas  !  alas  !  one  fated  even, 
AN'hen  stars  their  azure  deeps  began  to  throng, 
Tliat  virgin's  eyes  of  Poet  loved  waxed  dim, 
And  all  their  lustrous  shininir  waned  to  him. 


TIIK    STAIIS    MONUMENT.  1  _>  L 

*'  In  summer  dusk  she  drooped  her  head  and  sighed 
Until  what  time  the  evening  star  went  down, 

And  all  the  other  stars  did  shining  bide 
Clear  in  the  lustre  of  their  old  renown, 

And  then  —  the  virgin  laid  her  down  and  died : 
Forgot  her  youth,  forgot  her  beauty's  crown, 

Forgot  the  sisters  whom  she  loved  before, 

And  broke  her  Poet's  heart  for  evermore." 


"  A  mournful  tale,  in  sooth,"  the  lady  saith  : 
"  But  did  he  truly  grieve  for  evermore  ?  " 

"  It  may  be  you  forget,"  he  answereth, 
"  That  this  is  but  a  fable  at  the  core 

O'  the  other  falile."'     "  Though  it  be  but  breath," 
She  asketh,  "  was  it  true  ?  "     Then  he,  *'  This  lore, 

Since  it  is  fable,  either  way  may  go  ; 

Then,  if  it  please  you,  think  it  might  be  so." 


"  Xay,  but,"  she  saith,  "  if  I  had  told  your  tale, 
The  virgin  should  have  lived  his  home  to  bless, 

Or,  must  she  die,  I  would  have  made  to  fail 
His  useless  love."     "  I  tell  vou  not  the  less," 


122  THE  star's  monument. 

He  sighs,  "  because  it  was  of  no  avail : 

His  heart  the  Poet  would  not  dispossess 
Thereof.  But  let  us  leave  the  fable  now. 
My  Poet  heard  it  ^vith  an  aching  brow." 


And  he  made  answer  thus  :   "I  thank  thee,  youth  ; 

Strange  is  thy  story  to  these  aged  ears, 
But  I  bethink  me  thou  hast  told  a  truth 

Under  the  guise  of  fable.     If  my  tears, 
Thou  lost  beloved  star,  lost  now,  forsooth. 

Indeed  could  bring  thee  back  among  thy  peers. 
So  new  thou  shouldst  be  deemed  as  newly  seen, 
For  men  forget  that  thou  hast  ever  been. 


"  There  was  a  morning  when  I  longed  for  fame. 
There  was  a  noontide  when  I  passed  it  by, 

There  is  an  evening  when  I  think  not  shame 
Its  substance  and  its  being  to  deny ; 

For  if  men  bear  in  mind  great  deeds,  the  name 
Of  him  that  wrought  them  shall  they  leave  to  die  ; 

Or  if  his  name  they  shall  have  deathless  writ. 

They  change  the  deeds  that  first  ennobled  it. 


THE    ST.UiS    MONUMENT.  123 

*'  O  golden  letters  of  this  monument ! 

0  words  to  celebrate  a  loved  renown 
Lost  now  or  wrested  !  and  to  fancies  lent, 

Or  on  a  fabled  forehead  set  for  crown, 
For  my  departed  star,  I  am  content, 

Though  legends  dim  and  years  her  memory  drown : 
For  what  were  fame  to  her,  compared  and  set 
By  this  great  truth  which  ye  make  lustrous  yet  ?  " 


•'  Adieu  ! "  the  Poet  said,  "  my  vanished  star. 
Thy  duty  and  thy  happiness  were  one. 

Work  is  heaven's  hest ;  its  fame  is  sublunar : 

The  fame  thou  dost  not  need  —  the  work  is  done. 

For  thee  I  am  content  that  these  things  are  ; 
More  than  content  were  I,  my  race  being  run. 

Might  it  be  true  of  me,  though  none  thereon 

Should  muse  regretful  —  '  AYhile  he  lived  he  shone.' " 


So  said,  the  Poet  rose  and  went  his  way, 

And  that  same  lot  he  proved  whereof  he  spake. 

Madam,  my  story  is  told  out ;  the  day 

Draws  out  her  shadows,  time  doth  overtake 


124  THE  star's  monument. 

The  morning.     That  which  endeth  call  a  lay, 

Sung  after  pause  —  a  motto  in  the  break 
Between  two  chapters  of  a  tale  not  new, 
Nor  joyful  —  but  a  common  tale.     Adieu  ! 


And  that  same  God  who  made  your  face  so  fair, 
And  gave  your  woman's  heart  its  tenderness, 

So  shield  the  blessmg  He  implanted  there. 
That  it  may  never  turn  to  your  distress. 

And  never  cost  you  trouble  or  desp'iir, 

Nor  granted  leave  the  granter  comfortless ; 

But  like  a  river  blest  where'er  it  flows, 

Be  still  receivino;  while  it  still  bestows. 


Adieu,  he  said,  and  paused,  while  she  sat  mute 
In  the  soft  shadow  of  the  apple-tree  ; 

The  skylark's  song  rang  like  a  joyous  flute. 
The  brook  went  prattling  past  her  restlessly  : 

She  let  their  tongues  be  her  tongue's  substitute ; 
It  was  the  wind  that  sighed,  it  was  not  she  : 

And  what  the  lark,  the  brook,  the  Avind,  had  said, 

We  cannot  tell,  for  none  interpreted. 


THE  star's  monument.  125 

Their  counsels  might  be  hard  to  reconcile, 
They  might  not  suit  the  moment  or  the  spot. 

She  rose,  and  laid  her  work  aside  the  while 
Down  in  the  sunshine  of  that  grassy  plot; 

She  looked  upon  him  with  an  almost  smile, 
And  held  to  him  a  hand  that  faltered  not. 

One  moment  —  bird  and  brook  went  warbling  on. 

And  the  wind  sighed  again  —  and  he  was  gone. 


So  quietly,  as  if  she  heard  no  more 

Or  skylark  in  the  azure  overhead, 
Or  water  slipping  past  the  cressy  shore. 

Or  wind  that  rose  in  sighs,  and  sighing  fled  — 
So  quietly,  until  the  alders  hoar 

Took  him  beneath  them  ;   till  the  downward  spread 
Of  planes  engulfed  him  in  their  leafy  seas  — 
She  stood  beneath  her  rose-flushed  apple-trees. 


And  then  she  stooped  toward  the  mossy  grass. 
And  gathered  up  her  work  and  went  her  way  ; 

Straight  to  that  ancient  turret  she  did  pass. 
And  startle  back  some  fawns  that  were  at  play. 


126  THE   STAll's   MONUMENT. 

She  did  not  sigh,  she  never  said  "  Alas  ! " 

Although  he  was  her  friend :  but  still  that  day, 
Where  elm  and  hornbeam  spread  a  towering  dome, 
She  crossed  the  dells  to  her  ancestral  home. 


And  did  she  love  him  ?  —  what  if  she  did  not  ? 

Then  home  was  still  the  home  of  happiest  years ; 
Nor  thought  was  exiled  to  partake  his  lot, 

Nor  heart  lost  courage  through  foreboding  fears  ; 
Nor  echo  did  against  her  secret  plot, 

Nor  music  her  betray  to  painful  tears  ; 
Nor  life  become  a  dream,  and  sunshine  dim, 
And  riches  poverty,  because  of  him. 


But  did  she  love  him?  —  what  and  if  she  did? 

Love  cannot  cool  the  burning  Austral  sand. 
Nor  show  the  secret  waters  that  lie  hid 

In  arid  valleys  of  that  desert  land. 
Love  has  no  spells  can  scorching  winds  forbid, 

Or  bring  the  help  which  tarries  near  to  hand. 
Or  spread  a  cloud  for  curtaining  faded  eyes 
That  gaze  up  dying  into  alien  skies. 


127 


A  DEAD  YEAR. 


TOOK  a  year  out  of  my  life  and 

story — 
A  dead  year,  and  said,  "I  will  hew 

thee  a  tomb ! 
'  All  the  kings  of  the  nations  lie  in 
glory ; ' 

Cased  in  cedar,  and  shut  in  a  sacred  gloom ; 
Swathed  in  linen,  and  precious  unguents  old ; 
Painted  with  cinnabar,  and  rich  with  gold. 


"  Silent  they  rest,  in  solemn  salvatory, 
Sealed    from  the  moth  and  the   owl  and  the  flitter- 
mouse  — 

Each  with  his  name  on  his  brow. 
*  All  the  kings  of  the  nations  lie  in  glory, 
Every  one  in  his  own  house  : ' 

Then  why  not  thou  ? 


128  A   DEAD    YEAR. 

"  Year/''  I  said,  "thou  shalt  not  lack 
Bribes  to  bar  thy  coming  backj 
Doth  old  Egypt  wear  her  best 
In  the  chambers  of  her  rest  ? 
Doth  she  take  to  her  last  bed 
Beaten  gold,  and  glorious  red  ? 
Envy  not !  for  thou  wilt  wear 
In  the  dark  a  shroud  as  fair ; 
Golden  with  the  sunny  ray 
Thou  withdrawest  from  my  day ; 
Wrought  upon  with  colors  fine 
Stolen  from  this  life  of  mine  : 
Like  the  dusty  Libyan  kings, 
Lie  with  two  wide-open  wings 
On  thy  breast,  as  if  to  say, 
On  these  wings  hope  flew  away ; 
And  so  housed,  and  thus  adorned, 
Not  forgotten,  but  not  scorned, 
Let  the  dark  for  evermore 
Close  thee  when  I  close  the  door ; 
And  the  dust  for  ages  fall 
In  the  creases  of  thy  pall ; 
And  no  voice  nor  visit  rude 
Break  thy  sealed  solitude.'" 


A    DEAD    YEAR.  129 

I  took  the  year  out  of  my  life  and  story, 
The  dead  year,  and  said,  "  I  have  hewed  thee  a  tomb  ! 

'  All  the  kings  of  the  nations  lie  in  glory,' 
Cased  in  cedar,  and  shut  in  a  sacred  gloom ; 
But  for  the  sword,  and  the  sceptre,  and  diadem, 

Sure  thou  didst  reign  like  them/' 
So  I  laid  her  with  those  tyrants  old  and  hoary, 

According  to  my  vow ; 
For  I  said,  "  The  kings  of  the  nations  Ue  in  glory, 
And  so  shalt  thou  !  " 

"Rock,"  I  said,  "  thy  ribs  are  strong, 

That  I  bring  thee  guard  it  long ; 

Hide  the  light  from  buried  eyes  — 

Hide  it,  lest  the  dead  arise." 

"  Year,"  I  said,  and  turned  away, 

' '  I  am  free  of  thee  this  day ; 

All  that  we  two  only  know, 

I  forgive  and  I  forego. 

So  thy  face  no  more  I  meet 

In  the  field  or  in  the  street." 

Thus  we  parted,  she  and  I ; 
Life  hid  death,  and  put  it  by ; 


130  A    DKAJ)    YEAR. 

Life  hid  death,  and  said,  "  Be  free  ! 
I  have  no  more  need  of  thee." 
Xo  more  need  !     O  mad  mistake, 
"VYith  repentance  in  its  -wake  ! 
Ignorant,  and  rash,  and  blind, 
Life  had  left  the  grave  behind ; 
But  had  locked  within  its  hold 
With  the  spices  and  the  gold. 
All  she  had  to  keep  her  warm 
Li  the  raging  of  the  storm. 

Scarce  the  sunset  bloom  was  gone. 
And  the  little  stars  outshone, 
Ere  the  dead  year,  stiff  and  stark. 
Drew  me  to  her  in  the  dark  ; 
Death  drew  life  to  come  to  her. 
Beating  at  her  sepulchre. 
Crying  out,  "  How  can  I  part 
With  the  best  share  of  my  heart  ? 
Lo,  it  lies  upon  the  bier. 
Captive,  with  the  buried  year. 
O  my  heart  ? "     And  I  fell  prone. 
Weeping  at  the  sealed  stone  ; 
"Year  among  the  shades,"'  I  said. 


A    DE  AL»    YE  All.  131 

"  Since  I  live,  and  thou  art  dead, 
Let  my  captive  heart  be  free 
Like  a  bird  to  %  to  me.'" 
And  I  stayed  some  voice  to  win, 
But  none  answered  from  within ; 
And  I  kissed  the  door  —  and  night 
Deepened  till  the  stars  waxed  bright ; 
And  I  saw  them  set  and  wane. 
And  the  world  turned  green  again. 

"  So,"  I  whispered,  "  open  door, 
I  must  tread  this  palace  Hoor  — 
Sealed  palace,  rich  and  dim. 
Let  a  narrow  sunbeam  swim 
After  me,  and  on  me  spread 
While  I  look  upon  my  dead  ; 
Let  a  little  warmth  be  free 
To  come  after ;  let  me  see 
Through  the  doorway,  when  I  sit 
Looking  out,  the  swallows  flit, 
Settling  not  till  daylight  goes  ; 
Let  me  smell  the  wild  white  rose. 
Smell  the  woodbine  and  the  may ; 
Mark,  upon  a  sunny  day, 


132  A   DEAD   YEAR. 

Sated  from  their  blossoms  rise 
Honey-bees  and  butterflies. 
Let  me  hear,  O  !  let  me  hear. 
Sitting  by  my  buried  year, 
Finches  chirping  to  their  young. 
And  the  little  noises  flung 
Out  of  clefts  where  rabbits  play, 
Or  from  falling  water-sj^ray  ; 
And  the  gracious  echoes  woke 
By  man's  work  :   the  woodman's  stroke. 
Shout  of  shepherd,  whistlings  blithe, 
And  the  Avhetting  of  the  scythe  ; 
Let  this  be,  lest,  shut  and  furled 
\       From  the  well-beloved  world, 
I  forget  her  yearnings  old, 
And  her  troubles  manifold, 
Strivings  sore,  submissions  meet. 
And  my  pulse  no  longer  beat, 
Keeping  time  and  bearing  part 
With  the  pulse  of  her  great  heart. 


"  So  !  swing  open  door,  and  shade 
Take  me  :  I  am  not  afraid, 


A    DEAD    YEAi;.  133 

For  the  time  will  not  be  long ; 
Soon  I  shall  have  waxen  strong  — 
Strong  enough  my  own  to  win 
From  the  grave  it  Kes  witliin.'" 

And  I  entered.     On  her  bier 
Quiet  lay  the  buried  year ; 
I  sat  down  where  I  could  see 
Life  without  and  sunshine  free, 
Death  within.     And  I  between. 
Waited  my  own  heart  to  wean 
From  the  shroud  that  shaded  her 
In  the  rock-hewn  sepulchre  — 
Waited  till  the  dead  should  say, 
*' Heart,  be  free  of  me  this  day"- — 
Waited  with  a  patient  will  — 

And    I   WAIT    BETWEEN    THEM    STILL. 

I  take  the  year  back  to  my  life  and  story, 
The  dead  year,  and  say,  "  I  will  share  in  thy  tomb.^ 

'  All  the  kings  of  the  nations  lie  in  glory ; ' 
Cased  in  cedar,  and  shut  in  a  sacred  gloom  ! 
They  reigned  in  their  lifetime  with  sceptre  and  diadem. 
But  thou  excellest  them  ; 


134  A    DEAD    YEAR, 

For  life  doth  make  thy  grave  her  oratory, 

And  the  crown  is  still  on  thy  brow ; 

'  All  the  kings  of  the  nations  lie  in  glory ' 
And  so  dost  thou." 


135 


REFLECTIONS. 


Written  for  The  Portfolio  Society,  July,  1862. 


Looking  over  a  Qate  at  a  Pool  in  a  Field. 


HAT  change  has  made  the  pastures 

sAveet 
And  reached  the  daisies  at  my  feet, 
And  cloud  that  wears  a  golden 
hem  ? 
This   lovely   -world,    the    hills,    the 
sward  — 
They  all  look  fresh,  as  if  our  Lord 
But  yesterday  had  finished  them. 


And  here"'s  the  field  with  light  aglow ; 
How  fresh  its  boundary  lime-trees  show. 
And  how  its  wet  leaves  trembling;  shine ! 


136  REFLECTIONS. 

Between  their  trunks  come  through  to  me 
The  mornmg  sparkles  of  the  sea 
Below  the  level  browsing  line. 

I  see  the  pool  more  clear  hy  half 
Than  pools  where  other  waters  laugh 

Up  at  the  breasts  of  coot  and  rail. 
There,  as  she  passed  it  on  her  way, 
I  saw  reflected  yesterday 

A  maiden  with  a  milking-pail. 

There,  neither  slowly  nor  in  haste, 
One  hand  upon  her  slender  waist, 

The  other  lifted  to  her  pad. 
She  rosy  in  the  morning  light. 
Among  the  water-daisies  white. 

Like  some  fair  sloop  appeared  to  sail. 

Against  her  ankles  as  she  trod. 
The  lucky  buttercups  did  nod. 

I  leaned  upon  the  gate  to  see  : 
The  sw^eet  thing  looked,  but  did  not  speak : 
A  dimple  came  in  either  cheek, 

And  all  my  heart  was  gone  from  me. 


RKFLECTIONS.  .  137 

Then,  as  I  lingered  on  the  gate, 
And  she  came  up  like  coming  fate, 

I  saw  my  picture  in  her  eyes  — 
Clear  dancing  eyes,  more  black  than  sloes. 
Cheeks  like  the  mountain  pink,  that  grows 

Among  white-headed  majesties. 

I  said,  "  A  tale  was  made  of  old 
That  I  would  fain  to  thee  unfold ; 

Ah  !  let  me  — let  me  tell  the  tale." 
But  high  she  held  her  comely  head  ; 
"  I  cannot  heed  it  now,""  she  said, 

"For  carrying  of  the  milking-pail." 

She  laughed.     What  good  to  make  ado? 
I  held  the  gate,  and  she  came  through. 

And  took  her  homeward  path  anon. 
From  the  clear  pool  her  face  had  Hed ; 
It  rested  on  my  heart  instead, 

Reflected  when  the  maid  was  gone. 

With  happy  youth,  and  work  content. 
So  sweet  and  stately  on  she  went. 
Right  careless  of  the  untold  tale. 


138  REFLECTIONS. 

Each  step  she  took  I  loved  her  more, 
And  followed  to  her  dairy  door 
The  maiden  with  the  milking-pail. 


For  hearts  where  wakened  love  doth  lurk, 
How  fin(;,  how  blest  a  thing  is  work  ! 

For  work  docs  good  when  reasons  fail  — 
Good ;  yet  the  axe  at  every  stroke 
The  echo  of  a  name  awoke  — 

Her  name  is  Mary  Martin  dale. 

I'm  glad  that  echo  was  not  heard 
Ai'ight  by  other  men  :  a  bird 

Knows  doubtless  what  his  own  notes  tell ; 
And  I  know  not,  but  I  can  say 
I  felt  as  shame-faced  all  that  day 

As  if  folks  heard  her  name  right  well. 

And  when  the  west  began  to  glow 
I  went  —  I  could  not  choose  but  go  — 
To  that  same  dairy  on  the  hill ; 


REFLECTIONS.  139 

And  while  sweet  Mary  moved  about 
Within,  I  came  to  her  without, 
And  leaned  upon  the  window-sill. 

The  garden  border  where  I  stood 

"Was  sweet  with  pinks  and  southernwood. 

I  spoke  — her  answer  seemed  to  fail : 
I  smelt  the  pinks  —  I  could  not  see  ; 
The  dusk  came  down  and  sheltered  me. 

And  in  the  dusk  she  heard  my  tale. 

And  what  is  left  that  I  should  tell  ? 
I  begged  a  kiss,  I  pleaded  well : 

The  rosebud  lips  did  long  decline ; 
But  yet  I  think,  I  think  'tis  true, 
That,  leaned  at  last  into  the  dew, 

One  little  instant  they  were  mine. 

O  life  !  how  dear  thou  hast  become  : 
She  laughed  at  dawn,  and  I  was  dumb, 

But  evening  counsels  best  prevail. 
Fair  shine  the  blue  that  o'er  her  spreads. 
Green  be  the  pastures  where  she  treads. 

The  maiden  with  the  milking-pail ! 


140 


THE  LETTER  L. 


ABSENT. 


E  sat  on  grassy  slopes  that  meet 
With  sudden  dip  the  level  strand  ; 
^  I  The  trees  hung  overhead — our  feet 
Were  on  the  sand, 


Two  silent  girls,  a  thoughtful  man, 

We  sunned  ourselves  in  open  light, 
And  felt  such  April  airs  as  fan 
The  Isle  of  Wiirht : 


And  smelt  the  -wall-flower  in  the  crag 
Whereon  that  dainty  waft  had  fed, 
AVhich  made  the  bell-hung  cowslip  wag 
Her  delicate  head ; 


THE    LETTER    L.  141 

And  let  alighting  jackdaws  fleet 

Adown  it  open-winged,  and  pass 
Till  they  could  touch  with  outstretched  feet 
The  warmed  grass. 

The  happy  wave  ran  up  and  rang 

Like  service  bells  a  long  way  off, 
And  down  a  little  freshet  sprang 
From  mossy  trough. 

And  splashed  into  a  rain  of  spray. 

And  fretted  on  with  daylight's  loss. 
Because  so  many  blue-bells  lay 
Leaning  across. 

Blue  martins  gossiped  in  the  sun, 

And  pairs  of  chattering  daws  flew  by, 
And  sailing  brigs  rocked  softly  on 
In  company. 

"Wild  cherry  boughs  above  us  spread 

The  whitest  shade  was  ever  seen, 
And  flicker,  flicker,  came  and  fled 
Sun  spots  between. 


142  THE    LETTER    L, 

Bees  murmured  in  the  milk-white  bloom 

As  bal3es  will  sigh  for  deep  content 
When  their  sweet  hearts  for  peace  make  room, 
As  given,  not  lent. 

And  we  saw  on  :  we  said  no  word, 

And  one  was  lost  in  musings  rare, 
One  buoyant  as  the  waft  that  stirred 
Her  shining  hair. 

His  eves  were  bent  upon  the  sand, 

Unfathomed  deeps  within  them  lay. 
A  slender  rod  was  in  his  hand  — 
A  hazel  spray. 

Her  eyes  were  resting  on  his  face, 

As  shyly  glad,  by  stealth  to  glean 
Impressions  of  his  manly  grace 
And  guarded  mien ; 

The  mouth  with  steady  sweetness  set. 

And  eyes  conveying  unaware 
The  distant  hint  of  some  regret 
That  harbored  there. 


THE    LETTER   L,.  143 

She  gazed,  and  in  the  tender  flush 

That  made  her  face  like  roses  blown, 
And  in  the  radiance  and  the  hush, 
Her  thought  was  shown. 

It  was  a  happv  thing  to  sit 

So  near,  nor  mar  his  reverie  ; 
She  looked  not  for  a  part  in  it, 
So  meek  was  she. 

But  it  was  solace  for  her  eves. 

And  for  her  heart,  that  yearned  to  him. 
To  watch  apart  in  loving  wise 
Those  musings  dim. 

Lost  —  lost,  and  gone  !     The  Pelham  woods 

Were  full  of  doves  that  cooed  at  ease ; 
The  orchis  filled  her  purple  hoods 
For  dainty  bees. 

He  heard  not ;  all  the  delicate  air 

Was  fresh  with  falling  Avater-spray  : 
It  mattered  not  —  he  was  not  there, 
But  flir  away. 


144  THE    LETTER   L. 

Till  -svitli  the  hazel  in  his  hand, 

Still  drowned  in  thought,  it  thus  befell ; 
He  dreAV  a  letter  on  the  sand  — 
The  letter  L. 

And  looking  on  it,  straight  there  -wi'ought 

A  ruddy  flush  about  his  brow  ; 
His  letter  woke  him :  absent  thought 
Rushed  homeward  now. 

And  half-abashed,  liis  hasty  touch 

Effaced  it  with  a  tell-tale  care, 
As  if  his  action  had  been  much. 
And  not  his  air. 

And  she  ?  she  watched  his  open  palm 

Smooth  out  the  letter  from  the  sand, 
And  rose,  with  aspect  almost  calm, 
And  filled  her  hand 

With  cherry  bloom,  and  moved  away 

To  gather  wild  forget-me-not. 
And  let  her  errant  footsteps  stray 
To  one  sweet  spot. 


THE   LETTER   L.  145 

As  if  she  coveted  the  fair 

White  lining  of  the  silver-weed, 
And  cuckoo-pint  that  shaded  there 
Empurpled  seed. 

She  had  not  feared,  as  I  divine, 

Because  she  had  not  hoped.     Alas  ! 
The  sorrow  of  it  I  for  that  sign 
Came  but  to  pass  ; 

And  yet  it  robbed  her  of  the  right 

To  give,  who  looked  not  to  receive, 
And  made  her  blush  in  love's  despite 
That  she  should  grieve. 

A  shape  in  white,  she  turned  to  gaze ; 

Her  eyes  were  shaded  with  her  hand, 
And  half-way  up  the  winding  ways 
We  saw  her  stand. 

Green  hollows  of  the  fringed  cliff, 

Red  rocks  that  under  waters  show. 
Blue  reaches,  and  a  sailing  skiff. 
Were  spread  below. 
10 


116  THE   LETTER   L. 

She  stood  to  gaze,  perhaps  to  sigh. 

Perhaps  to  think ;  but  who  can  tell, 
How  heavy  on  her  heart  must  lie 
The  letter  L  ! 


She  came  anon  with  quiet  grace ; 

And  "  What,"'  she  murmured,  "  silent  vet !  " 
He  answered,  "  'Tis  a  haunted  place, 
And  spell-beset. 

"  O  speak  to  us,  and  break  the  spell !  *'' 

"  The  spell  is  broken,"  she  replied. 
"  I  crossed  the  rvuining  brook,  it  fell, 
It  could  not  bide. 

"And  I  have  brought  a  budding  world, 

Of  orchis  spires  and  daisies  rank, 

And  ferny  jjluniet^  but  half  uncurled, 

From  vondt-r  liank  ; 


THE    LETTEK    L.  147 

"And  I  shall  weave  of  them  a  crown, 
And  at  the  well-head  launch  it  free, 
That  so  the  brook  may  float  it  down, 
And  out  to  sea. 

"  There  may  it  to  some  English  hands 
From  fairy  meadow  seem  to  come  ; 
The  fairyest  of  fairy  lands  — 
The  land  of  home." 

""WeaA'e  on,''  he  said,  and  as  she  wove 

We  told  how  currents  in  the  deep, 
"With  branches  from  a  lemon  grove. 
Blue  bergs  will  sweep. 

And  messages  from  shipwrecked  folk 

Will  navigate  the  moon-led  main. 
And  painted  boards  of  splintered  oak 
Their  port  regain. 

Then  floated  out  by  vagrant  thought. 

My  soul  beheld  on  torrid  sand 
The  wasteful  water  set  at  nought 
Man's  skilful  hand. 


148  THE    LETTER   L. 

And  suck  out  gold-dust  from  the  box, 
And  wash  it  doAvn  in  weedy  whirls, 
And  split  the  wine-keg  on  the  rocks, 
And  lose  the  pearls. 

"  Ah  !  why  to  that  which  needs  it  not," 

Methought,  "  should  costly  things  be  given? 
How  much  is  wasted,  wrecked,  forgot, 
On  this  side  heaven  !  " 

So  musing,  did  mine  ears  awake 

To  maiden  tones  of  sweet  reserve, 
And  manly  speech  that  seemed  to  make 
The  steady  curve 

Of  lips  that  uttered  it  defer 

Their  guard,  and  soften  for  the  thought  : 
She  listened,  and  his  talk  with  her 
Was  fancy  fraught. 

*'  There  is  not  much  in  liberty  "  — 
With  doubtful  pauses  he  began  ; 
And  said  to  her  and  said  to  me, 
"  There  was  a  man  — 


THE    LETTER   L.  149 

"  There  was  a  man  who  dreamed  one  night 

That  his  dead  father  came  to  him ; 

And  said,  when  fire  was  low,  and  light 

Was  burning  dim  — 

"  '  AVhy  vagrant  thus,  my  sometime  pride. 

Unloved,  unloving,  wilt  thou  roam  ? 
Sure  home  is  best ! '     The  son  replied, 
'I  have  no  home.' 

"  '  Shall  not  I  speak  ?  '  his  father  said, 

'  Who  earl}'  chose  a  youthful  wife, 
And  worked  for  her,  and  with  her  led 
My  happy  life. 

"  '  Ay,  I  will  speak,  for  I  was  young 

As  thou  art  now,  when  I  did  hold 

The  prattling  sweetness  of  thy  tongue 

Dearer  than  gold  ; 

"  '  And  rosy  from  thy  noonday  sleep 
Would  bear  thee  to  admiring  kin. 
And  all  thy  pretty  looks  would  keep 
My  heart  within. 


150  THE   LETTER    L. 

'* '  Then  after,  'mid  thy  young  allies  — 

For  thee  ambition  Hushed  my  brow  — 
I  coveted  the  schoolboy  j)rize 
Far  more  than  thou. 

"  '  I  thought  for  thee,  I  thought  for  all 

My  gamesome  imps  that  round  me  grew ; 
The  dews  of  blessing  heaviest  fall 
Where  care  falls  too. 

"  'And  I  that  sent  my  boys  away, 

In  youthful  strength  to  earn  their  bread. 
And  died  Ijefore  the  hair  Avas  grey 
Upon  my  head  — 

" '  I  say  to  thee,  though  free  from  care, 

A  lonely  lot,  an  aimless  life. 
The  crowning  comfort  is  not  there  — 
Son,  take  a  wife.' 

"  'Father  beloved,'  the  son  replied, 
And  failed  to  gather  to  his  breast, 
With  arms  in  darkness  searching  wide, 
The  formless  guest. 


THE    LETTER   L.  151 

'* '  1  am  but  free,  as  sorrow  is, 

To  dry  her  tears,  to  laugh,  to  talk: 
And  free,  as  sick  men  are,  I  wis 
To  rise  and  walk. 

** '  And  free,  as  poor  men  are,  to  buy 

If  they  have  nought  wherewith  to  pay ; 
Xor  hope,  the  debt  before  they  die, 
To  wipe  away. 

*'  '  What  'vails  it  there  are  wives  to  win, 
And  faithful  hearts  for  those  to  yearn, 
Who  find  not  aught  thereto  akin 
To  make  return  .^^ 

"  '  Shall  he  take  much  who  little  gives. 

And  dwells  in  spirit  far  away, 
When  she  that  in  his  presence  lives. 
Doth  never  stray, 

*' '  But  waking,  guideth  as  beseems 

The  happy  house  in  order  trim. 
And  tends  her  babes ;  and  sleeping,  dreams 
Of  them,  and  him  ? 


152  THE    LETTER    L. 

"  '  O  base,  O  cold,' "  —  while  thus  he  spake 

The  dream  broke  off,  the  vision  fled ; 
He  carried  on  his  speech  awake 
And  sighing  said  — 

'* '  I  had  —  ah  happy  man  !  —  I  had 

A  precious  jewel  in  my  breast. 
And  while  I  kept  it  I  was  glad 
At  work,  at  rest ! 

"  '  Call  it  a  heart,  and  call  it  strong 

As  upward  stroke  of  eagle's  wing ; 
Then  call  it  weak,  you  shall  not  wrong 
The  beating  thing. 

"  *  In  tangles  of  the  jungle  reed, 

Whose  heats  are  lit  with  tiger  eyes, 
In  shipwreck  drifting  with  the  weed 
'l!^eath  rainy  skies, 

"  *  Still  youthful  manhood,  fresh  and  keen. 

At  danger  gazed  with  awed  delight, 
As  if  sea  would  not  drown,  I  ween. 
Nor  serpent  bite. 


THE    LETTER   L.  153 

"  '  I  had  —  ah  happy  !  but  'tis  gone, 
The  priceless  jewel ;  one  came  by. 
And  saw  and  stood  awhile  to  con 
With  curious  eye, 

"  'And  wished  for  it,  and  faintly  smiled 

From  under  lashes  black  as  doom. 
With  subtle  sweetness,  tender,  mild, 
That  did  illume 

*'  *  The  perfect  face,  and  shed  on  it 

A  charm,  half  feeling,  half  surprise. 
And  brim  with  dreams  the  exquisite 
Brown  blessed  eyes. 

*'  '  Was  it  for  this,  no  more  but  this, 

I  took  and  laid  it  in  her  hand. 
By  dimples  ruled,  to  hint  submiss, 
By  frown  unmanned? 

"  '  It  was  for  this  —  and  O  farewell 

The  fearless  foot,  the  present  mind. 
And  steady  will  to  breast  the  swell 
And  face  the  wind  ! 


154  THE    LETTER    L. 

*'  'I  gave  the  jewel  from  my  breast, 
She  played  with  it  a  little  while 
As  I  sailed  down  into  the  west, 
Fed  by  her  smile ; 

"  '  Then  weary  of  it  — far  from  land, 

With  sigh  as  deep  as  destiny, 
She  let  it  drop  from  her  fair  hand 
Into  the  sea, 

"  '  And  watched  it  sink ;  and  I —  and  I,  — 

What  shall  I  do,  for  all  is  vain  ? 
No  wave  will  bring,  no  gold  will  buy, 
No  toil  attain  ; 

"  '  Nor  any  diver  reach  to  raise 

My  jewel  from  the  blue  abyss  ; 
Or  could  they,  still  I  should  but  praise 
Their  work  amiss. 

"  *  Thrown,  thrown  away  !     But  I  love  yet 

The  fair,  fair  hand  which  did  the  deed : 
That  wayward  sweetness  to  forget 
Were  bitter  meed. 


THE    LETTER    L.  155 


"  '  No,  let  it  lie,  and  let  the  wave 

Roll  over  it  for  evermore  ; 
Whelmed  where  the  sailor  hath  his  grave  — 
The  sea  her  store. 


*' '  My  heart,  my  sometime  happy  heart ! 

And  O  for  once  let  me  complain, 
I  must  forego  life's  better  part  — 
Man's  dearer  gain. 

* '  '  I  worked  afar  that  I  might  rear 

A  peaceful  home  on  English  soil ; 
I  labored  for  the  gold  and  gear — 
I  loved  my  toil. 

"  '  For  ever  in  my  spirit  spake 

The  natural  whisper,  "  Well  'twill  be 
When  loving  wife  and  children  break 
Their  bread  with  thee !  " 

"  '  The  gathered  gold  is  turned  to  dross, 

The  wife  hath  faded  into  air. 

My  heart  is  thrown  away,  my  loss 

I  cannot  spare. 


156  THE    LETTER    L. 

*'  'Not  spare  unsated  thought  her  food  — 

No,  not  one  rustle  of  the  fold, 
Nor  scent  of  eastern  sandalwood, 
Nor  gleam  of  gold  ; 

"  'Nor  quamt  devices  of  the  shawl, 

Far  less  the  drooping  lashes  meek ; 
The  gracious  figure,  lithe  and  tall, 
The  dimpled  cheek; 

* ' '  And  all  the  wonders  of  her  eyes. 

And  sweet  caprices  of  her  air, 
Albeit,  indignant  reason  cries. 
Fool !  have  a  care. 

"  '  Fool !  join  not  madness  to  mistake  ; 

Thou  knowest  she  loved  thee  not  a  whit  ; 
Only  that  she  thy  heart  might  break  — 
She  wanted  it, 

"  '  Only  the  conquered  thing  to  chain 
So  fast  that  none  might  set  it  free. 
Nor  other  woman  there  might  reign 
And  comfort  thee. 


THE    LETTER   L.  157 

"  '  Robbed,  robbed  of  life's  illusions  sweet ; 

Love  dead  outside  her  closed  door, 
And  passion  fainting  at  lier  feet 
To  wake  no  more  ; 

"  '  "WTiat  canst  thou  give  that  unknown  bride 

"Whom  thou  didst  Avork  for  in  the  waste. 
Ere  fated  love  was  born,  and  cried  — 
AYas  dead,  ungraced? 

"  '  N'o  more  but  this,  the  partial  care. 

The  natural  kindness  for  its  own, 
The  trust  that  waxeth  unaware, 
As  worth  is  known  : 

"  '  Observance,  and  complacent  thought 

Indulgent,  and  the  honor  due 
That  many  another  man  has  brought 
Who  brought  love  too. 

"  '  Xay,  then,  forbid  it  Heaven  ! '  he  said, 

'  The  saintly  vision  fades  from  me  ; 
O  bands  and  chains  !  I  cannot  wed  — 
I  am  not  free.'"" 


158  THE    LETTER   h. 

AVith  that  he  raised  his  face  to  view ; 

"  What  think  you,"  asking,  "  of  my  tale  ? 
And  was  he  right  to  let  the  dew 
Of  morn  exhale, 

'*  And  burdened  in  the  noontide  sun, 

The  grateful  shade  of  home  forego  — 
Could  he  be  right  —  I  ask  as  one 
Who  fain  would  know  ?  " 

He  spoke  to  her  and  spoke  to  me ; 

The  rebel  rose-hue  dyed  her  cheek  ; 
The  woven  crown  lay  on  her  knee ; 
She  would  not  speak. 

And  I  with  doubtful  pause  —  averse 

To  let  occasion  drift  away  — 
I  answered —  "  If  his  case  were  worse 
Than  word  can  say, 

*'  Time  is  a  healer  of  sick  hearts. 

And  women  have  been  known  to  choose, 
With  purpose  to  allay  their  smarts, 
And  tend  their  bruise. 


THE   LETTER   L.  159 

"These  for  themselves.     Content  to  give, 

In  their  own  lavish  love  complete, 
Taking  for  sole  prerogative 

Their  tendance  sweet. 

"  Such  meeting  in  their  diadem 

Of  crowning  love's  ethereal  fire, 
Himself  he  robs  who  robbeth  them 
Of  their  desire. 

"Therefore  the  man  who,  dreaming,  cried 

Against  his  lot  that  evensong, 
I  judge  him  honest,  and  decide 
That  he  was  wrong." 

"  Wlien  I  am  judged,  ah  may  my  fate," 
He  whispered,  "  in  thy  code  be  read ! 
Be  thou  both  judge  and  advocate." 
Then  turned,  he  said  — 

"  Fair  weaver  ! "  touching,  while  he  spoke. 

The  woven  crown,  the  weaving  hand, 
*'  And  do  you  this  decree  revoke. 
Or  niav  it  stand  ? 


IGO  THE    LETTER   L. 

*'  This  friend,  you  ever  think  her  right  — 

She  is  not  wrong,  then  ?  ''     Soft  and  low 
The  little  trembling  word  took  flight : 
She  answered,  "Xo."' 


PRESENT. 

A  meadow  where  the  grass  was  deep, 

Rich,  square,  and  golden  to  the  view, 
A  belt  of  elms  with  level  sweep 
About  it  grew. 

The  sun  beat  down  on  it,  the  line 

Of  shade  was  clear  beneath  the  trees  ; 
There,  by  a  clustering  eglantine, 
We  sat  at  ease. 

And  O  the  buttercups  !  that  field 

O^  the  cloth  of  gold,  where  pennons  swam 
"Where  France  set  up  his  lilied  shield. 
His  orillamb, 


THE    LETTER   L.  161 

And  Henry's  lion-standard  rolled : 

What  was  it  to  their  matchless  sheen, 
Theii'  million  million  drops  of  gold 
Among  the  green ! 

"We  sat  at  ease  in  peaceful  trust, 

For  he  had  written,  "  Let  us  meet ; 
My  wife  grew  tired  of  smoke  and  dust, 
And  London  heat, 

*'  And  I  have  found  a  quiet  grange, 

Set  back  in  meadows  sloping  west. 
And  there  our  little  ones  can  range 
And  she  can  rest. 

*'  Come  down,  that  we  may  show  the  view. 

And  she  may  hear  your  voice  again, 
And  talk  her  woman's  talk  with  you 
Along  the  lane." 

Since  he  had  drawn  with  listless  hand 
The  letter,  six  long  years  had  fled, 
And  winds  had  blown  about  the  sand, 
And  they  were  wed. 
11 


162  THE    LETTER   L. 

Two  rosy  urchins  near  him  played, 

Or  watched,  entranced,  the  shapely  ships 
That  with  his  knife  for  them  he  made 
Of  elder  slips. 

And  where  the  flowers  were  thickest  shed, 

Each  blossom  like  a  burnished  gem, 
A  creeping  baby  reared  its  head, 
And  cooed  at  them. 

And  calm  was  on  the  father's  face, 

And  love  was  in  the  mother's  eyes  ; 
She  looked  and  listened  from  her  place. 
In  tender  wise. 

She  did  not  need  to  raise  her  voice 

That  they  might  hear,  she  sat  so  nigh ; 
Yet  we  could  speak  when  'twas  our  choice, 
And  soft  reply. 

Holding  our  quiet  talk  apart 

Of  household  things ;  till,  all  unsealed, 
The  guarded  outworks  of  the  heart 
Began  to  yield ; 


THE    LETTER   L.  163 

And  much  that  prudence  will  not  dip 

The  pen  to  fix  and  send  away, 
Passed  safely  over  from  the  lip 
That  summer  day. 

"  I  should  be  happy/'  with  a  look 

Towards  her  husband  where  he  lay. 
Lost  in  the  pages  of  his  book, 
Soft  did  she  say. 

' '  I  am,  and  yet  no  lot  below 

For  one  whole  day  eludeth  care ; 
To  marriage  all  the  stories  flow. 
And  finish  there  : 

"As  if  with  marriage  came  the  end, 

The  entrance  into  settled  rest, 
The  calm  to  which  love's  tossings  tend. 
The  quiet  breast. 

' '  For  me  love  played  the  low  preludes. 

Yet  life  began  but  with  the  ring, 
Such  infinite  solicitudes 
Around  it  cling. 


164:  THE    LETTER   L. 

' '  I  did  not  for  my  heart  divine 

Her  destiny  so  meek  to  grow ; 
The  higher  nature  matched  with  mine 
Will  have  it  so. 

'*  Still  I  consider  it,  and  still 

Acknowledge  it  my  master  made, 
Above  me  by  the  steadier  will 
Of  nought  afraid. 

"Above  me  by  the  candid  speech; 

The  temperate  judgment  of  its  own  ; 
The  keener  thoughts  that  grasp  and  reach 
At  things  unknown. 

"  But  I  look  up  and  he  looks  down, 

And  thus  our  married  eyes  can  meet ; 
Unclouded  his,  and  clear  of  frown, 
And  gravely  sweet. 

"  And  yet,  O  good,  O  wise  and  true  ! 

I  would  for  all  my  fealty. 
That  I  could  be  as  much  to  you 
As  you  to  me  ; 


THE    LETTER    L.  165 

"  And  knew  tlie  deep  secure  content 

Of  wives  who  have  been  hardly  won, 
And,  long  petitioned,  gave  assent. 
Jealous  of  none. 

"  But  proudly  sure  in  all  the  earth 
Xo  other  in  that  homage  shares, 
Xor  other  woman's  face  or  worth 
Is  prized  as  theirs." 

I  said :  ''And  yet  no  lot  heloio 

For  one  loTiole  day  eludeth  care. 
Your  thought."     She  answered,  "  Even  so. 
I  would  beware 

"Regretful  questionings;  be  sure 
That  very  seldom  do  they  rise, 
Nor  for  myself  do  I  endure  — 
I  sj-mpathize. 

"  For  once  "  —  she  turned  away  her  head, 
Across  the  grass  she  swept  her  hand  — 
"  There  was  a  letter  once,"  she  said, 
*'  Upon  the  sand." 


166  THE    LETTER    L. 

**  There  was,  in  truth,  a  letter  -writ 

On  sand,''  I  said,  "  and  swept  from  view ; 
But  that  same  hand  which  fashioned  it 
Is  given  to  you. 

"Efface  the  letter;  wherefore  keep 

An  image  which  the  sands  forego  ?  " 
"  Albeit  that  fear  had  seemed  to  sleep,*' 
She  answered  low, 

"  I  could  not  choose  but  wake  it  now; 

For  do  but  turn  aside  your  face, 
A  house  on  yonder  hilly  brow 
Your  eyes  may  trace. 

"  The  chestnut  shelters  it ;  ah  me, 
That  I  should  have  so  faint  a  heart ! 
But  yestereve,  as  by  the  sea 
I  sat  apart, 

"  I  heard  a  name,  I  saw  a  hand 

Of  passing  stranger  point  that  way  — 
And  will  he  meet  her  on  the  strand. 
When  late  we  strav  ? 


THE    LETTER    L.  167 

♦'  For  she  is  come,  for  she  is  there, 
I  heard  it  in  the  dusk,  and  heard 
Admiring  words,  that  named  her  fair, 
But  little  stirred 

"  By  beauty  of  the  wood  and  wave, 
And  weary  of  an  old  man's  sway ; 
For  it  was  sweeter  to  enslave 
Than  to  obey." 

—  The  voice  of  one  that  near  us  stood. 

The  rustle  of  a  silken  fold, 
A  scent  of  eastern  sandalwood, 
A  gleam  of  gold  ! 

A  lady  I     In  the  narrow  space 

Between  the  husband  and  the  wife. 
But  nearest  him  —  she  showed  a  face 
With  dangers  rife  ; 

A  subtle  smile  that  dimpling  fled, 

As  night-black  lashes  rose  and  fell : 
I  looked,  and  to  myself  I  said, 
"  The  letter  L." 


168  THE   LETTER   L. 

He,  too,  looked  up,  and  with  arrest 

Of  breath  and  motion  held  his  gaze. 
Nor  cared  to  hide  within  his  breast 
His  deep  amaze ; 

Nor  spoke  till  on  her  near  advance 

His  dark  cheek  flushed  a  ruddier  hue ; 
And  with  his  change  of  countenance 
Hers  altered  too. 

"  Lenore  ! "  his  voice  was  like  the  cry 

Of  one  entreating  ;  and  he  said 
But  that  —  then  paused  with  such  a  sigh 
As  mourns  the  dead. 

And  seated  near,  with  no  demur 

Of  bashful  doubt  she  silence  broke. 
Though  I  alone  could  answer  her 
When  first  she  spoke. 

She  looked :  her  eyes  were  beauty's  own ; 

She  shed  their  sweetness  into  his  ; 
Nor  spared  the  married  wife  one  moan 
That  bitterest  is. 


THE   LETTER   L.  IG'J 

She  spoke,  and  lo,  her  lovehness 

Methought  she  damaged  with  her  tongue  ; 
And  every  sentence  made  it  less, 
So  false  they  rung. 

The  rallying  voice,  the  light  demand. 

Half  flippant,  half  unsatisfied ; 
The  vanity  sincere  and  bland  — 
The  answers  wide. 

And  now  her  talk  was  of  the  East, 

And  next  her  talk  was  of  the  sea ; 
*' And  has  the  love  for  it  increased 
You  shared  with  me  ?  " 

He  answered  not,  but  grave  and  still 

"With  earnest  eyes  her  face  perused, 
And  locked  his  lips  with  steady  will. 

As  one  that  mused — 

That  mused  and  wondered.     Why  his  gaze 

Should  dwell  on  her,  methought,  was  plain  ; 
But  reason  that  should  wonder  raise 
I  sought  in  vain. 


170  THE    LETTER   L. 

And  near  and  near  the  cMldren  drew, 

Attracted  by  her  rich  array, 
And  gems  that  trembling  into  view 
Like  raindrops  lay. 

He  spoke  :  the  wife  her  baby  took 

And  pressed  the  little  face  to  hers ; 
What  pain  soe'er  her  bosom  shook, 
What  jealous  stirs 

Might  stab  her  heart,  she  hid  them  so. 

The  cooing  babe  a  veil  supplied ; 
And  if  she  listened  none  might  know, 
Or  if  she  sighed ; 

Or  if  forecasting  grief  and  care 

Unconscious  solace  thence  she  drew, 
And  lulled  her  babe,  and  unaware 
Lulled  sorrow  too. 

The  lady,  she  interpreter 

For  looks  or  language  wanted  none, 
If  yet  dominion  stayed  with  her  — 
So  lightly  won ; 


THE    LETTER    L.  171 

If  yet  the  heart  she  wounded  sore 

Could  yearn  to  her,  and  let  her  see 
The  homage  that  was  evermore 
Disloyalty  ; 

If  sign  would  yield  that  it  had  bled, 
Or  rallied  from  the  faithless  blow, 
Or  sick  or  sullen  stooped  to  wed. 
She  craved  to  know. 

Xow  dreamy  deep,  now  sweetly  keen. 

Her  asking  eyes  would  round  him  shine  ; 
But  guarded  lips  and  settled  mien 
Refused  the  sign. 

And  unbeguiled  and  unbetrayed, 

The  wonder  yet  within  his  breast, 
It  seemed  a  watchful  part  he  played 
Against  her  quest. 

Until  with  accent  of  regret 

She  touched  upon  the  past  once  more, 
As  if  she  dared  him  to  forget 
His  dream  of  yore. 


172  THE    LETTER    L. 

And  words  of  little  weight  let  fall 

The  fancy  of  the  lower  mind ; 
How  waxing  life  must  needs  leave  aU 
Its  best  behind ; 

How  he  had  said  that  ' '  he  would  fain 

(One  morning  on  the  halcyon  sea) 
That  life  would  at  a  stand  remain 
Eternally ; 

'•  And  sails  be  mirrored  in  the  deep, 
As  then  they  were,  for  evermore, 
And  happy  spirits  wake  and  sleep 
Afar  from  shore : 

' '  The  well-contented  heart  be  fed 
Ever  as  then,  and  all  the  world 
(It  were  not  small)  unshadowed 
\  When  sails  were  furled. 

'  *'  Your  words "'  —  a  pause,  and  quietly 
With  touch  of  calm  self-ridicule  : 
"  It  rnay  be  so  —  for  then,"  said  he, 
"  I  was  a  fool." 


THE    LETTER   L.  173 

With  that  he  took  his  book,  and  left 

An  awkward  silence  to  my  care, 
That  soon  I  filled  with  questions  deft 
And  debonair ; 

And  slid  into  an  easy  vein, 

The  favorite  picture  of  the  year ; 
The  grouse  upon  her  lord's  domain  — 
The  salmon  weir ; 

Till  she  could  feign  a  sudden  thought 

Upon  neglected  guests,  and  rise. 
And  make  us  her  adieux,  with  nought 
In  her  dark  eyes 

Acknowledging  or  shame  or  pain ; 
But  just  unveiling  for  our  view 
A  little  smile  of  still  disdain 
As  she  withdrew. 

Then  nearer  did  the  sunshine  creep. 

And  warmer  came  the  wafting  breeze  ; 
The  little  babe  was  fast  asleep 
On  mother's  knees. 


174  THE    LETTER   L. 

Fair  was  the  face  that  o'er  it  leant, 

The  cheeks  with  beauteous  blushes  dyed ; 
The  downcast  lashes,  shyly  bent, 
That  failed  to  hide 

Some  tender  shame.     She  did  not  see  ; 
She  felt  his  eyes  that  would  not  stir, 
She  looked  upon  her  babe,  and  he 
So  looked  at  her. 

So  grave,  so  wondering,  so  content. 

As  one  new  waked  to  conscious  life, 
Whose  sudden  joy  Avitli  fear  is  blent. 
He  said,  "  My  wife.'" 

"  My  wife,  how  Ijeautiful  you  are  ! " 

Then  closer  at  her  side  reclined, 
"  The  bold  brown  woman  from  afar 
Comes,  to  me  blind. 

"  And  by  comparison,  I  see 

The  majesty  of  matron  grace, 
And  learn  how  pure,  how  fair  can  be 
Mv  own  wife''s  face  : 


THE    LETTER    L.  175 

"Pure  with  all  faithful  passion,  fair 

With  tender  smiles  that  come  and  go ; 
And  comforting  as  April  air 
After  the  snow. 

"  Fool  that  I  was  !  my  spirit  frets 

And  marvels  at  the  humbling  truth, 
That  I  have  deigned  to  spend  regrets 
On  my  bruised  youth. 

"  Its  idol  mocked  thee,  seated  nigh. 

And  shamed  me  for  the  mad  mistake  ; 
I  thank  my  God  He  could  deny, 
And  she  forsake. 

"Ah,  who  am  I,  that  God  hath  saved 

Me  from  the  doom  I  did  desire, 
And  crossed  the  lot  myself  had  craved, 
To  set  me  higher  ? 

"  What  have  I  done  that  He  should  bow 
From  heaven  to  choose  a  wife  for  me  ? 
And  what  deserv^ed.  He  should  endow 
My  home  with  thee  ? 


176  THE    LETTER    L. 

"  My  wife  ! "     With  that  she  turned  her  face 

To  kiss  the  hand  about  her  nec'k  ; 
And  I  went  down  and  sought  the  place 
Where  leaped  the  beck  — 

The  busy  beck,  that  still  would  run 

And  fall,  and  falter  its  refrain  ; 
And  pause  and  shimmer  in  the  sun, 
And  fall  again. 

It  led  me  to  the  sandy  shore, 

We  sang  together,  it  and  I  — 
"  The  daylight  comes,  the  dark  is  o'er, 
The  shadows  fly/' 

I  lost  it  on  the  sandy  shore, 

"  O  wife  !  "  its  latest  murmurs  fell, 
"  O  wife,  be  glad,  and  fear  no  more 
The  letter  L." 


177 


THE  HIGH  TIDE  0^^  THE    COAST  OF  LES^- 
COLXSPHRE. 

(1571.) 

jHE  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry- 
tower, 
The  ringers  ran  by  two,  by  three  ; 
'  Pull,  if  ye  never  pulled  before ; 
Good  ringers,  pull  your  best," 
quoth  he. 
"  Play  uppe,  play  uppe,  O  Boston  bells  ! 
Ply  all  your  changes,  all  your  swells, 

Play  uppe  '  The  Brides  of  Enderby.' " 


Men  say  it  was  a  stolen  tyde  — 

The  Lord  that  sent  it,  He  knows  all ; 

But  in  m}Tie  ears  doth  still  abide 
The  message  that  the  bells  let  fall : 
12 


178  "HE    HIGH    TIDE. 

And  there  was  nought  of  strange,  beside 
The  flights  of  mews  and  peewits  pied 

By  millions  crouched  on  the  old  sea  wall. 

I  sat  and  spun  within  the  doore, 

My  thread  brake  off,  I  raised  myne  eyes ; 

The  level  sun,  like  ruddy  ore, 
Lay  sinking  in  the  barren  skies ; 

And  dark  against  day's  golden  death 

She  moved  where  Lindls  wandereth. 

My  Sonne's  faire  wife,  Elizabeth. 

*'  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  Cusha  ! ''  calling. 
Ere  the  early  dews  were  falling, 
Farre  away  I  heard  her  song. 
"  Cusha  !  Cusha !  "  all  along ; 
Where  the  reedy  Lindis  floweth, 

Floweth,  floweth. 
From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth 
Faintly  came  her  milking  song  — 

"  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  Cusha  !"'  calling, 
' '  For  the  dews  will  soone  be  falHng ; 


THE   HIGH   TIDE.  179 

Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow ; 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow; 
Come  uppe  Whitefoot,  come  uppe  Lightfoot ; 
Quit  the  stalks  of  parsley  hollow. 

Hollow,  hollow ; 
Come  uppe  Jetty,  rise  and  follow. 
From  the  clovers  lift  your  head  ; 
Come  uppe  Whitefoot,  come  uppe  Lightfoot, 
Come  uppe  Jetty,  rise  and  follow. 
Jetty,  to  the  milking  shed." 

If  it  be  long,  ay,  long  ago. 

When  I  beginne  to  think  howe  long, 
Againe  I  hear  the  Lindis  flow. 

Swift  as  an  arrowe,  sharpe  and  strong ; 
And  all  the  aire,  it  seemeth  mee, 
Bin  full  of  floating  bells  (sayth  shee), 
That  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby. 

Alle  fresh  the  level  pasture  lay. 

And  not  a  shadowe  mote  be  scene, 
Save  where  full  fyve  good  miles  away 

The  steeple  towered  from  out  the  greene ; 


180  THE    HIGH    TIDE. 

And  lo !  the  great  bell  farre  and  wide 
Was  heard  in  all  the  eountry  side 
That  Saturday  at  eventide. 

The  swanherds  where  their  sedges  are 
Moved  on  in  sunset's  golden  breath, 
The  shepherde  lads  I  heard  afarre, 
And  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth; 
Till  floating  o'er  the  grassy  sea 
Came  downe  that  kyndly  message  free, 
The  "Brides  of  Mavis  Enderby." 

Then  some  looked  uppc  into  the  sky, 
And  all  along  where  Lindis  flows 

To  where  the  goodly  vessels  lie, 

And  where  the  lordly  steeple  shows. 

They  sayde,  "And  why  should  this  thing  be? 

What  danger  lowers  by  land  or  sea  ? 

They  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby  ! 

"For  evil  news  from  Mablethorpe, 
Of  pyrate  galleys  warping  down ; 

For  shippes  ashore  beyond  the  scorpe. 
They  have  not  spared  to  wake  the  towne  : 


THE   HIGH   TIDE,  181 

But  while  the  west  bin  red  to  see, 
And  storms  be  none,  and  pyrates  flee. 
Why  ring  '  The  Brides  of  Enderby  '  ?  " 

I  looked  without,  and  lo  !  my  sonne 

Came  riding  downe  with  might  and  main  : 

He  raised  a  shout  as  he  drew  on, 
Till  all  the  welkin  rang  again, 

"Elizabeth!  Elizabeth!" 

(A  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 

Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth.) 

"  The  olde  sea  wall  (he  cried)  is  downe. 

The  rising  tide  comes  on  apace, 
And  boats  adrift  in  yonder  towne 

Go  sailing  uppe  the  market-place." 
He  shook  as  one  that  looks  on  death : 
"  God  save  you,  mother !  "  straight  he  saith ; 
**  Where  is  my  wife,  Elizabeth  .►^  " 

"  Good  Sonne,  where  Lindis  winds  her  way. 
With  her  two  bairns  I  marked  her  long  ; 

And  ere  yon  bells  beganne  to  play 
Afar  I  heard  her  milking  song." 


182  THE    HIGH    TIDE. 

He  looked  across  the  grassy  lea, 
To  right,  to  left,  "  Ho  Enderby  !  " 
They  rang  "  The  Brides  of  Enderby !  " 

With  that  he  cried  and  beat  his  breast ; 

For,  lo  !  along  the  river's  bed 
A  mighty  eygre  reared  his  crest. 

And  uppe  tlie  Lindis  raging  sped. 
It  swept  with  thunderous  noises  loud ; 
Shaped  like  a  curling  snoAV-white  cloud, 
Or  like  a  demon  in  a  shroud. 

And  rearing  Lindis  backward  pressed 

Shook  all  her  trembling  bankes  amaine  ; 
Then  madly  at  the  eygre's  breast 

Flung  uppe  her  weltering  walls  again. 
Then  bankes  came  downe  with  ruin  and  rout- 
Tlien  beaten  foam  flew  round  about  — 
Then  all  the  mighty  floods  were  out. 

So  farre,  so  fiist  the  eygre  drave, 
The  heart  had  liardly  time  to  beat. 

Before  a  shallow  seething  wave 

Sobbed  in  the  j^rasses  at  oure  feet : 


THE    HIGH    TIDE.  183 

The  feet  had  hardly  time  to  flee 
Before  it  brake  against  the  knee, 
And  all  the  world  was  in  the  sea. 

Upon  the  roofe  we  sate  that  night, 

The  noise  of  bells  went  sweeping  by ; 

I  marked  the  lofty  beacon  light 

Stream  from  the  church  tower,  red  and  high  — 

A  lurid  mark  and  dread  to  see  ; 

And  awsome  bells  they  were  to  mee, 

That  in  the  dark  rang  "  En  derby." 

They  rang  the  sailor  lads  to  guide 

From  roofe  to  roofe  who  fearless  rowed ; 

And  I  —  my  sonne  was  at  my  side, 
And  yet  the  ruddy  beacon  glowed ; 

And  yet  he  moaned  beneath  his  breath, 

"  O  come  in  life,  or  come  in  death ! 

O  lost!  my  love,  Elizabeth." 

And  didst  thou  visit  him  no  more  ? 

Thou  didst,  thou  didst,  my  daughter  deare  ; 
The  waters  laid  thee  at  his  doorc. 

Ere  yet  the  early  dawn  was  clear. 


184  THE    HIGH    TIDE. 

Thy  pretty  bairns  in  fast  embrace, 
The  lifted  sun  shone  on  thy  face, 
Downe  drifted  to  thy  dwelling-place. 

That  flow  strewed  wrecks  about  the  grass. 
That  ebbe  swept  out  the  flocks  to  sea ; 

A  fatal  ebbe  and  flow,  alas  ! 

To  manye  more  than  myne  and  mee  : 

But  each  will  mourn  his  own  (she  saith). 

And  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 

Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth. 

I  shall  never  hear  her  more 
By  the  reedy  Lindis  shore, 
"Cusha!  Cusha !  Cusha!"'  calling, 
Ere  the  early  dews  be  falling ; 
I  shall  never  hear  her  song, 
"  Cusha  !  Cusha  ! ''  all  along 
"Where  the  sunny  Lindis  floweth, 

Goeth,  floweth ; 
From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth. 
When  the  water  winding  down, 
Onward  floweth  to  the  town. 


THE    HIGH    TIDE.  185 

I  stall  never  see  her  more 

Where  the  reeds  and  rushes  quiver, 

Shiver,  quiver ; 
Stand  beside  the  sobbing  river, 
Sobbing,  throbbing,  in  its  falling 
To  the  sandy  lonesome  shore  ; 
I  shall  never  hear  her  calling, 
"Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow ; 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow ; 
Come  uppe  ^Vliitefoot,  come  uppe  Lightfoot ; 
Quit  your  pipes  of  parsley  hollow, 

Hollow,  hollow ; 
Come  uppe  Lightfoot,  rise  and  follow ; 

Lightfoot,  Whitefoot, 
From  your  clovers  lift  the  head ; 
Come  uppe  Jetty,  follow,  follow, 
Jetty,  to  the  milking  shed." 


186 


AFTEPvXOOX  AT  A  PAESO:NrAGE. 

(the  parson's  brotiiee,  sister,  and  two  children.) 

Preface. 


HAT  •wonder  man  should  fail  to  stay 
A  nursling  wafted  from  above, 
The  growth  celestial  come  astray, 
That  tender  growth  whose  name 
is  Love ! 


It  is  as  if  high  winds  in  heaven 
Had  shaken  the  celestial  trees. 

And  to  this  earth  below  had  given 

Some  feathered  seeds  from  one  of  these. 

O  perfect  love  that  xlureth  long  ! 

Dear  growth,  that  shaded  by  the  palms. 
And  breathed  on  by  the  angel's  song. 

Blooms  on  in  heaven's  eternal  calms  ! 


AFTERXOON    AT    A   PARSONAGE.  187 

How  great  the  task  to  guard  thee  here, 
Where  wind  is  rough,  and  frost  is  keen, 

And  all  the  ground  with  doubt  and  fear 
Is  chequered  birth  and  death  between  ! 

Space  is  against  thee  —  it  can  part ; 

Time  is  against  thee  —  it  can  chill ; 
Words  —  they  but  render  half  the  heart ; 

Deeds  —  they  are  poor  to  our  rich  will. 


Merton.     Though   she   had   loved   me,    I   had   never 

bound 
Her  beauty  to  my  darkness ;  that  had  been 
Too  hard  for  her.     Sadder  to  look  so  near 
Into  a  face  all  shadow,  than  to  stand 
Aloof,  and  then  withdraw,  and  afterwards 
Suffer  forgetfulness  to  comfort  her. 
I  think  so,  and  I  loved  her ;  therefore  I 
Have  no  complaint ;  albeit  she  is  not  mine  : 
And  yet  —  and  yet,  withdrawing  I  would  fain 
She  would  have  pleaded  duty  —  would  have  said 


188  AITERXOOX   AT   A  PARSONAGE. 

"  My  father  wills  it ;  "  would  have  turned  away, 

As  lingering,  or  unwillingly  ;  for  then 

She  would  have  done  no  damage  to  the  past : 

Kow  she  has  roughly  used  it  —  Hung  it  down 

And  brushed  its  bloom  away.     If  she  had  said, 

"  Sir,  I  have  promised  ;  therefore,  lo  !  my  hand  "  — 

Would  I  have  taken  it  ?     Ah  no  !  by  all 

Most  sacred,  no ! 

I  would  for  my  sole  share 
Have  taken  first  her  recollected  blush 
The  day  I  won  her ;  next  her  shining  tears  — 
The  tears  of  our  long  parting  ;   and  for  all 
The  rest — her  cry,  her  l)itter  heart-sick  cry. 
That  day  or  night  (I  know  not  which  it  was. 
The  days  being  always  night),  that  darkest  night, 
AVhen  being  led  to  her  I  heard  her  cry, 
"O  blind!  blind!  blind!'' 

Go  with  thy  chosen  mate 
The  fashion  of  thy  going  nearly  cured 
The  sorrow  of  it.     I  am  yet  so  weak 
That  half  my  thoughts  go  after  thee  ;  but  not 
So  weak  that  I  desire  to  have  it  so. 


APTERXOON   AT   A  PAKSOXAGE.  189 


Jessie,  seated  at  the  piano ^  sinrjs. 

When  the  dimpled  water  slippeth, 

Full  of  laughter,  on  its  way. 
And  her  wing  the  wagtail  dippeth, 

Eunning  by  the  brink  at  play ; 
When  the  poplar  leaves  atremble 

Turn  their  edges  to  the  light, 
And  the  far-up  clouds  resemble 

Yeils  of  gauze  most  clear  and  white ; 
And  the  sunbeams  fall  and  flatter 

Woodland  moss  and  branches  brown, 
And  the  glossy  finches  chatter 

Up  and  down,  up  and  down : 
Though  the  heart  be  not  attending, 

Having  music  of  her  own. 
On  the  grass,  through  meadows  wending, 

It  is  sweet  to  walk  alone. 

When  the  falling  waters  utter 

Something  mournful  on  their  way. 
And  departing  swallows  flutter. 

Taking  leave  of  bank  and  brae; 
When  the  chaffinch  idly  sitteth 

With  her  mate  upon  the  sheaves. 
And  the  wistful  robin  flitteth 

Over  beds  of  yellow  leaves ; 


190  ATTERXOOX   AT    A   PARSONAGE. 

"When  the  clouds,  like  ghosts  that  ponder 

Evil  fate,  float  by  and  frown. 
And  the  listless  wind  doth  wander 

Up  and  down,  up  and  down : 
Though  the  heart  be  not  attending, 

Having  sorrows  of  her  own, 
Through  the  fields  and  fallows  wending, 

It  is  sad  to  walk  alone. 

Merton.     Blind  !  blind  !  blind  ! 
Oh !  sitting  in  the  dark  for  evermore, 
And  doing  nothing  —  putting  out  a  hand 
To  feel  what  lies  about  me,  and  to  say 
Xot  "  This  is  blue  or  red,'"  but  "  This  is  cold, 
And  this  the  sun  is  shining  on,  and  this 
I  know  not  till  they  tell  its  name  to  me," 

O  that  I  might  behold  once  more,  my  God ! 
The  shining  rulers  of  the  night  and  day ; 
Or  a  star  twinkling  ;  or  an  almond-tree, 
Pink  with  her  blossom  and  alive  Avith  bees, 
Standing  against  the  azure  !     O  my  sight ! 
Lost,  and  yet  living  in  the  sunlit  cells 
Of  memory  —  that  only  lightsome  place 
Where  lingers  yet  the  dayspring  of  my  youth : 
The  years  of  mourning  for  thy  death  are  long. 


AFTERNOON  AT   A   PARSONAGE.  191 

Be  kind,  sweet  memory  !     O  desert  me  not ! 

For  oft  thou  show'st  me  lucent  opal  seas, 

Fringed  with  their  cocoa-palms,  and  dwarf  red  crags, 

Whereon  the  placid  moon  doth  "  rest  her  chin  ;  " 

For  oft  by  favor  of  thy  visitings 

I  feel  the  dimness  of  an  Indian  night. 

And  lo  !  the  sun  is  coming.     Red  as  rust 

Between  the  latticed  blind  his  presence  burns, 

A  ruby  ladder  running  up  the  wall ; 

And  all  the  dust,  printed  with  pigeons'  feet, 

Is  reddened,  and  the  crows  that  stalk  anear 

Begin  to  trail  for  heat  their  glossy  wings. 

And  the  red  flowers  give  back  at  once  the  dew, 

For  night  is  gone,  and  day  is  born  so  fast, 

And  is  so  strong,  that,  huddled  as  in  flight, 

The  fleeting  darkness  paleth  to  a  shade. 

And  while  she  calls  to  sleep  and  dreams  "  Come  on," 

Suddenly  waked,  the  sleepers  rub  their  eyes, 

Which  having  opened,  lo  !  she  is  no  more. 

O  misery  and  mourning  !     I  have  felt  — 
Yes,  I  have  felt  like  some  deserted  world 
That  God  had  done  with,  and  had  cast  aside 
To  rock  and  stagger  through  the  gulfs  of  space. 


192        AFTERNOON  AT  A  PARSONAGE. 

He  never  looking  on  it  any  more  — 
Unfilled,  no  use,  no  pleasure,  not  desired, 
Xor  lighted  on  by  angels  in  their  flight 
From  heaven  to  happier  planets,  and  the  race 
That  once  had  dwelt  on  it  withdrawn  or  dead. 
Could  such  a  world  have  hope  that  some  blest  day 
God  would  remember  her,  and  fashion  her 
Anew? 

Jessie.  \Vhat,  dearest?     Did  you  speak  to  me? 

Child.  I  think  he  spoke  to  us. 

M.  Xo,  little  elves, 

You  were  so  quiet  that  I  half  forgot 
Your  neighborhood.     "VVliat  are  you  doing  there  ? 

J.  They  sit  together  on  the  window-mat 
Nursing  their  dolls. 

C.  Yes,  Uncle,  our  new  dolls  — 

Our  best  dolls,  that  you  gave  us. 

31.  Did  you  say 

The  afternoon  was  bright  ? 

J.  Yes,  bright  indeed  ! 

The  sun  is  on  the  plane-tree,  and  it  flames 
All  red  and  orange. 

C.  I  can  see  my  father  — 

Look  !  look  I  the  leaves  are  falling  on  his  gown. 


AFTERNOON   AT    A   PARSONAGE.  193 

M.  ^\Tiere? 

C.  In    the    churchyard,    Uncle  —  he    is 

gone; 
He  passed  behind  the  tower. 

M.  I  heard  a  bell : 

There  is  a  funeral,  then,  behind  the  church. 

2)id  Child.    Are  the  trees  sorry  when  their  leaves 

drop  off  ? 
1st  Child.    You  talk  such  silly  words  ;  — no,  not  at 
all. 
There  goes  another  leaf. 

2nd  Child.  I  did  not  see. 

1st  Child.    Look!   on  the  grass,  between  the  little 
hills, 
Fust  where  they  planted  Amy. 

J.  Amy  died  — 

Dear  little  Amy  !  when  you  talk  of  her, 
Say,  she  is  gone  to  heaven. 

2?id  Child.  They  planted  her  — 

Will  she  come  up  next  year  ? 

1st  Child.  Xo,  not  so  soon; 

But  some  day  God  will  call  her  to  come  up, 
bid  then  she  will.     Papa  knows  everything  — 
le  said  she  would  before  he  planted  her. 
13 


194:  AFTERXOON    AT    A    PARSONAGE. 

2nd  Child.  It  was  at  night  she  went  to  heaven.    Last 
night 
We  saw  a  star  before  we  went  to  bed. 

\st  Child.    Yes,  Uncle,   did  you  know?      A  large 
bright  star, 
And  at  her  side  she  had  some  little  ones  — 
Some  young  ones. 

M.  Young  ones  !  no,  my  little  maid, 

Those  stars  are  very  old. 

1st  Child.  What !  all  of  them? 

M.  Yes. 

l5^  Child.  Older  than  our  father? 

M.  Older,  far. 

2nd  Child.     They  must  be  tired  of  shining  there  sc 
long. 
Perhaps  they  wish  they  might  come  down. 

J.  Perhaps 

Dear  children,  talk  of  what  you  understand. 
Come,  I  must  lift  the  trailing  creepers  up 
That  last  night's  wind  has  loosened. 

1st  Child.  ■  May  we  help? 

Aunt,  may  we  help  to  nail  them  ? 

J.  We  shall  see. 

Go,  find  and  brine;:  the  hammer,  and  some  shreds. 


AFTERXOOX  AT   A  PARSONAGE.  195 


[Steps  outside  the  window,  lifts  a  branch,  and  sings.] 

Should  I  change  my  allegiance  for  rancor 

If  fortune  changes  her  side  ? 
Or  should  I,  like  a  vessel  at  anchor, 

Turn  with  the  turn  of  the  tide  ? 
Lift  I  O  lift,  thou  lowering  sky; 

An  thou  wilt,  thy  gloom  forego ! 
An  thou  wilt  not,  he  and  I 

Xeed  not  part  for  drifts  of  snow. 


M.  [icithin']     Lift !  no,  thou  lowering  sky,  thou  wilt 
not  lift  — 
Thy  motto  readeth,  "Never." 

Children.  Here  they  are  ! 

Here  are  the  naijs  !  and  may  we  help  ? 

J.  You  shall, 

If  I  should  want  help. 

1st  Child.  Will  you  want  it,  then  ? 

Please  want  it — we  like  nailing. 

2nd  Child.  Yes,  we  do. 

J.     It  seems  I  ought  to  want  it ;  hold  the  bough. 
And  each  mav  nail  in  turn. 


196  ATTERNOOX   AT   A   PARSONAGE. 

[Sinffs.] 

Like  a  daisy  I  was,  near  him  growing: 

Must  I  move  because  favors  flag, 
And  be  like  a  brown  wall-flower  blowing 

Far  out  of  reach  in  a  crag '? 
Lift!  O  lift,  thou  lowering  sky; 

An  thou  canst,  thy  bhie  regain! 
An  thou  canst  not,  he  and  I 

Need  not  part  for  drops  of  rain. 

1st  Cliild.     Now,  have  we  nailed  enough? 

J.  [trains  the  creepers']     Yes,  you  may  go ; 
But  do  not  play  too  near  the  churchyard  path. 

M.    [iDithin']     Even   misfortune  does  not  strike  so 
near 
As  my  dependence.     O,  in  youth  and  strength 
To  sit  a  timid  coward  in  the  dark, 
And  feel  before  I  set  a  cautious  step ! 
It  is  so  very  dark,  so  far  more  dark 
Than  any  night  that  day  comes  after  —  night 
In  which  there  would  be  stars,  or  else  at  least 
The  silvered  portion  of  a  sombre  cloud 
Through  which  the  moon  is  plunging. 

J.  [entering]  Merton  I 


AFTERNOON  AT  A  PARSONAGE.         197 

M.  Yes. 

J.     Dear  Merton,  did  you  know  that  I  could  bear  ? 

M.     Xo  :  e'en  my  solitude  is  not  mine  now, 
And  if  I  be  alone  is  ofttimes  doubt. 
Alas  !  far  more  than  eyesight  have  I  lost ; 
For  manly  courage  drifteth  after  it  — 
E'en  as  a  splintered  spar  would  drift  away 
From  some  dismasted  wreck.     Hear,  I  complain  — 
Like  a  weak  ailing  woman  I  complain. 

J.     For  the  first  time. 

M.  I  cannot  bear  the  dark. 

J.     My  brother  !  you  do  bear  it  —  bear  it  well  — 
Have  borne  it  twelve  long  months,  and  not  complained. 
Comfort  your  heart  with  music  :  all  the  air 
Is  warm  with  sunbeams  where  the  organ  stands. 
You  like  to  feel  them  on  you.     Come  and  play. 

M.     My  fate,  my  fate  is  lonely  ! 

J.  So  it  is  — 

I  know  it  is. 

M.  And  pity  breaks  my  heart. 

J.     Does  it,  dear  Merton? 

M.  Yes,  I  say  it  does. 

What !  do  you  think  I  am  so  dull  of  ear 
That  I  can  mark  no  changes  in  the  tones 


198  AFTERNOON    AT    A    PARSONAGE. 

That  reach  me  ?     Once  I  liked  not  girlish  pride 

And  that  coy  quiet,  chary  of  reply, 

That  held  me  distant :  now  the  sweetest  lips 

Open  to  entertain  me  —  fairest  hands 

Are  proffered  me  to  guide. 

J.  That  is  not  well  ? 

M.     Xo  :  give  me  coldness,  pride,  or  still  disdain, 
Gentle  withdrawal.     Give  me  anything 
But  this  —  a  fearless,  sweet,  confiding  ease, 
Whereof  I  may  expect,  I  may  exact, 
Considerate  care  and  have  it  —  gentle  speech, 
And  have  it.     Give  me  anything  but  this  ! 
For  they  who  give  it,  give  it  in  the  faith 
That  I  will  not  misdeem  them,  and  forget 
My  doom  so  far  as  to  perceive  thereby 
Hope  of  a  wife.     Tliey  make  this  thought  too  plain  ; 
They  wound  me  —  O  they  cut  me  to  the  heart ! 
When  have  I  said  to  any  one  of  them, 
**  I  am  a  blind  and  desolate  man  ;  —  come  here, 
I  pray  you  —  be  as  eyes  to  me?  "     When  said. 
Even  to  her  whose  pitying  voice  is  SAveet 
To  my  dark  ruined  heart,  as  must  be  hands 
That  clasp  a  lifelong  captive's  through  the  grate, 
And  who  will  ever  lend  her  delicate  aid 


AFTERNOON  AT  A  PARSONAGE.         199 

To  guide  me,  dark  incumbrance  that  I  am!  — 
When  have  I  said  to  her,  "  Comforting  voice, 
Belonging  to  a  face  unknown,  I  pray 
Be  my  wife's  voice  ?  " 

J  Never,  my  brother — no, 

You  never  have  ! 

3/  What  could  she  think  of  me 

If  I  forgot  myself  so  far  ?  or  what 
Could  she  reply  ? 

J  You  ask  not  as  men  ask 

Who  care  for  an  opinion,  else  perhaps. 
Although  I  am  not  sure  —  although,  perhaps, 
I  have  no  right  to  give  one  —I  should  say 
She  would  reply,  "  I  will ! "' 


AfterthougM. 

Man  dwells  apart,  though  not  alone, 
He  walks  among  his  peers  unread ; 

The  best  of  thoughts  which  he  hath  known, 
For  lack  of  listeners  are  not  said. 


200  AFTERNOON  AT   A  PARSONAGE. 

Yet  dreaming  on  earth's  clustered  isles, 
He  saith,  "They  dwell  not  lone  like  men, 

Forgetful  that  their  sunflecked  smiles 
Flash  far  beyond  each  other's  ken. 

He  looks  on  God's  eternal  suns 
That  sprinkle  the  celestial  blue, 

And  saith,  "  Ah  !  happy  shining  ones, 

I  would  that  men  were  grouped  like  you  ! " 

Yet  this  Is  sure  :  the  loveliest  star 
That  clustered  with  its  peers  we  see, 

Only  because  from  vis  so  far 

Doth  near  its  fellows  seem  to  be. 


201 


SOXGS   OF   SEYEX. 


SEVEN    TIMES    ONE.       EXULTATION. 


HERE'S  no  dew  left  on  the  daisies 
and  clover, 
There's  no  rain  left  in  heaven  : 
I've  said  my  "seven  times"  over 
and  over, 
Seven  times  one  are  seven. 


I  am  old,  so  old,  I  can  -write  a  letter ; 

My  birthday  lessons  are  done  ; 
The  lambs  play  always,  they  know  no  better; 

They  are  only  one  times  one. 


O  moon  !  in  the  night  I  have  seen  you  sailing 

And  shining  so  round  and  low ; 
You  were  bright !  ah  bright !  but  your  light  is  failing 

You  are  nothing  now  but  a  bow. 


202  SOXGS   OF    SEVEN. 

You  moon,  have  you  done  something  wrong  in  heaven 

That  God  has  hidden  your  face  ? 
I  hope  if  you  have  you  will  soon  be  forgiven, 

And  shine  again  in  your  place. 


O  velvet  bee,  you're  a  dusty  fellow, 
You've  powdered  your  legs  with  gold ! 

O  brave  marsh  marybuds,  rich  and  yellow, 
Give  me  your  money  to  hold ! 


O  columbine,  open  your  folded  wrapper, 
Where  two  twin  turtle-doves  dwell ! 

O  cuckoopint,  toll  me  the  purple  clapper 
That  hangs  in  your  clear  green  bell ! 


And  show  me  your  nest  with  the  young  ones  in  it ; 

I  will  not  steal  them  away  ; 
I  am  old!  you  may  trust  me,  linnet,  linnet  — 

I  am  seven  times  one  to-day. 


SOXGS   OF   SEVEN.  203 


SE^-EX    TIMES    TWO.      ROM.^XE. 

You  bells  in  the  steeple,  ring,  ring  out  your  changes, 

How  many  soever  they  be. 
And  let  the  brown  meadow-lark's  note  as  he  ranges 

Come  over,  come  over  to  me. 


Yet  bird's  clearest  carol  by  fall  or  by  swelling 

Xo  magical  sense  conveys, 
And  bells  have  forgotten  their  old  art  of  telling 

The  fortune  of  future  days. 


"  Turn  again,  turn  again,''  once  they  rang  cheerily 

AVhile  a  boy  listened  alone ; 
Made  his  heart  yearn  again,  musing  so  wearily 

All  by  himself  on  a  stone. 


Poor  bells  !  I  forgive  you  ;  your  good  days  are  over, 

And  mine,  they  are  yet  to  be  ; 
1^0  listening,  no  longing  shall  aught,  auglit  discover : 

You  leave  the  story  to  me. 


204  SONGS.  OF    SEVEN. 

The  foxglove  shoots  out  of  the  green  matted  heather, 

Preparing  her  hoods  of  snow  ; 
She  was  idle,  and  slept  till  the  sunshiny  weather  : 

O,  children  take  long  to  grow. 


I  wish,  and  I  wish  that  the  spring  would  go  faster, 

Nor  long  summer  bide  so  late  ; 
And  I  could  grow  on  like  the  foxglove  and  aster, 

For  some  thinirs  are  ill  to  wait. 


I  wait  for  the  day  when  dear  hearts  shall  discover. 
While  dear  hands  are  laid  on  my  head ; 

*'  The  child  is  a  woman,  the  book  may  close  over, 
For  all  the  lessons  are  said." 


I  wait  for  my  story  —  the  birds  cannot  sing  it, 

Not  one,  as  he  sits  on  the  tree ; 
The  bells  cannot  ring  it,  but  long  years,  O  bring  it ! 

Such  as  I  wish  it  to  be. 


SONGS   OF    SEVEX.  205 


SEYEX    TIME    THREE,       LOVE, 

I  leaned  out  of  window,  I  smelt  the  white  clover, 

Dark,  dark  was  the  garden,  I  saw  not  the  gate ; 
"Now,  if  there  be  footsteps,  he  comes,  my  one  lover  — 
Hush,  nightingale,  hush  !     O,  sweet  nightingale,  wait 
Till  I  listen  and  hear 
If  a  step  draweth  near. 
For  mv  love  he  is  late ! 


♦'  The  skies  in  the  darkness  stoop  nearer  and  nearer, 

A  cluster  of  stars  hangs  like  fruit  in  the  tree. 
The  fall  of  the  water  comes  sweeter,  comes  clearer : 
To  what  art  thou  listening,  and  what  dost  thou  see  ? 
Let  the  star-clusters  grow, 
Let  the  sweet  waters  flow. 
And  cross  quickly  to  me. 


"  You  night  moths  that  hover  Avhere  honey  brims  over 
From  sycamore  blossoms,  or  settle  or  sleep  ; 

You  glowworms,  shine  out,  and  the  pathway  discover 
To  him  that  comes  darkling  along  the  rough  steep. 


206  SONGS  OF  se\t:n. 

Ah,  my  sailor,  make  haste, 
For  the  time  rims  to  waste, 
And  my  love  lieth  deep  — 

"  Too  deep  for  swift  telling  ;  and  yet,  my  one  lover, 

Tve  conned  thee  an  answer,  it  waits  thee  to-night.*' 
By  the   sycamore  passed  he,  and  through  the  white 
clover, 
Then  all  the  sweet    speech   I   had  fashioned  took 
flight; 

But  I'll  love  him  more,  more 
Than  e'er  wife  loved  before. 
Be  the  days  dark  or  bright. 


SEVEN   TIMES   FOUR.      MATERNITY. 

Heigh  ho  !  daises  and  buttercups. 

Fair  yellow  daffodils,  stately  and  tall ! 
When  the  wind  wakes  how  they  rock  in  the  grasses, 

And  dance  with  the  cuckoo-buds  slender  and  small ! 
Here's  two  bonny  boys,  and  here's  mother's  own  lasses, 
Eager  to  gather  them  all. 


SONGS   OF    SEVEX.  207 

Heigh  ho  !  daisies  and  buttercups  ! 

Mother  shall  thread  them  a  daisy  chain ; 
Sing  them  a  song  of  the  pretty  hedge  sparrow, 

That  loved  her  brown  little  ones,  loved  them  full  fain  ; 
Sing,  "  Heart,  thou  art  wide  though  the  house  be  but 
narrow  *''  — 

Sing  once,  and  sing  it  again. 


Heigh  ho  !  daisies  and  buttercups, 

Sweet  wagging  cowslips,  they  bend  and  they  bow ; 
A  ship  sails  afar  over  warm  ocean  waters. 

And  haply  one  musing  doth  stand  at  her  prow. 
O  bonny  brown  sons,  and  O  sweet  little  daughters, 
Maybe  he  thinks  on  you  now  ! 


Heigh  ho  !  daisies  and  buttercups. 

Fair  yellow  daffodils,  stately  and  tall  — 
A  sunshiny  world  full  of  laughter  and  leisure, 

And  fresh  hearts  unconscious  of  soitow  and  thrall ! 
Send  down  on  their  pleasure  smiles  passing  its  mea- 
sure, 

God  that  is  over  us  all ! 


208  S02sGS    OF    SEVEX. 


SEVEN    TEMES    FIVE.        WIDOWHOOD. 

I  sleep  and  rest,  my  heart  makes  moan 

Before  I  am  well  awake  ; 
"  Let  me  bleed  !     O  let  me  alone, 

Since  I  must  not  break  !  " 


For  children  wake,  though  fathers  sleep 
With  a  stone  at  foot  and  at  head : 

O  sleepless  God,  for  ever  keep, 
Keep  both  living  and  dead ! 


I  lift  mine  eyes,  and  what  to  see 

But  a  world  happy  and  fair ! 
I  have  not  wished  it  to  mourn  with  me  — 

Comfort  is  not  there. 


O  what  anear  but  golden  brooms, 
And  a  Avaste  of  reedy  rills  ! 

O  what  afar  but  the  fine  glooms 
On  the  rare  blue  hills  ! 


SONGS   OF   SEVEN.  209 

I  shall  not  die,  but  live  forlore  — 

How  bitter  it  is  to  part ! 
O  to  meet  thee,  my  love,  once  more ! 

O  my  heart,  my  heart ! 


No  more  to  hear,  no  more  to  see ! 

O  that  an  echo  might  wake 
And  waft  one  note  of  thy  psalm  to  me 

Ere  my  heart-strings  break ! 


I  should  know  It  how  faint  soe'er. 
And  with  angel  voices  blent ; 

O  once  to  feel  thy  spirit  anear ; 
I  could  be  content ! 


Or  once  between  the  gates  of  gold, 

While  an  entering  angel  trod, 
But  once  —  thee  sitting  to  behold 


On  the  hills  of  God 


14 


210  SONGS   OF    SEVEX. 


SE^-EX    TIMES    SIX.       GI^^XG    IX    MAERIAGE. 

To  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear. 

To  watch,  and  then  to  lose : 
To  see  my  bright  ones  disappear, 

Drawn  up  like  morning  dews  — 
To  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear, 

To  watch,  and  then  to  lose  : 
This  have  I  done  when  God  drew  near 

Among  his  own  to  choose. 

To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed. 

And  with  thy  lord  depart 
In  tears  that  he,  as  soon  as  shed, 

"W^ill  let  no  longer  smart.  — 
To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed. 

This  while  thou  didst  I  smiled, 
For  now  it  was  not  God  who  said, 

"  Mother,  give  me  thy  child." 

O  fond,  O  fool,  and  blind. 

To  God  I  gave  with  tears ; 
But  when  a  man  like  grace  would  find, 

jNIy  soul  put  by  her  fears  — 


SONGS    OF    SEVEN.  211 

O  fond,  O  fool,  and  blind, 

God  guards  in  happier  spheres  ; 
That  man  will  guard  where  he  did  bind 

Is  hope  for  unknoAvn  years. 

To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed, 

Fair  lot  that  maidens  choose, 
Thy  mother's  tenderest  words  are  said, 

Thy  face  no  more  she  ^dews  ; 
Thy  mother's  lot,  my  dear. 

She  doth  in  nought  accuse ; 
Her  lot  to  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear, 

To  love  —  and  then  to  lose. 


SEVEN   TLMES    SEVEN.      LONGING   FOR   HOME. 
I. 

A  song  of  a  boat :  — 
There  was  once  a  boat  on  a  billow : 
Lightly  she  rocked  to  her  port  remote. 
And  the  foam  was  white  in  her  wake  like  snow. 
And  her  frail  mast  bowed  when  the  breeze  would  blow, 
And  bent  like  a  wand  of  willow. 


212  SONGS   OF    SEVEN. 

II. 

I  shaded  mine  eves  one  day  when  a  boat 

Went  curtseying  over  the  billow, 
I  marked  her  course  till  a  dancing  mote 
She  faded  out  on  the  moonlit  foam. 
And  I  stayed  behind  in  the  dear  loved  home  ; 
And  my  thoughts  all  day  were  about  the  boat 
And  my  dreams  upon  the  pillow. 

III. 
I  pray  you  hear  my  song  of  a  boat, 

For  it  is  but  short :  — 
My  boat,  you  shall  fmd  none  fairer  afloat, 

In  river  or  port. 
Long  I  looked  out  for  the  lad  she  bore, 

On  the  open  desolate  sea, 
And  I  think  he  sailed  to  the  heavenly  shore, 

For  he  came  not  back  to  me  — 

Ah  me  ! 

IV. 

A  song  of  a  nest :  — 
There  was  once  a  nest  in  a  hollow : 
Down  in  the  mosses  and  knot-grass  pressed. 


SOXflS   OF   SEVEX.  213 

Soft  and  warm,  and  full  to  the  Lrim  — 
Vetches  leaned  over  it  purple  and  dim, 
With  buttercup  buds  to  follow. 

V. 

I  pray  you  hear  my  song  of  a  nest, 

For  it  is  not  long  :  — 
You  shall  never  light,  in  a  summer  quest 

The  bushes  among  — 
Shall  never  light  on  a  prouder  sitter, 

A  fairer  nestful,  nor  ever  know 
A  softer  sound  than  their  tender  twitter, 

That  wind-like  did  come  and  go. 

VI. 

I  had  a  nestful  once  of  my  own, 

Ah  happy,  liappy  I ! 
Right  dearly  I  loved  them :  but  when  they  were  grown 

They  spread  out  their  wings  to  fly  — 
O,  one  after  one  they  flew  away 

Far  up  to  the  heavenly  blue. 
To  the  better  country,  the  upper  day, 

And  —  1  wish  I  was  going  too. 


214  SONGS  OF  SE^^:x. 

YII. 

I  pray  you,  what  is  the  nest  to  me, 

My  empty  nest  ? 
And  what  is  the  shore  where  I  stood  to  see 

My  boat  sail  down  to  the  west  ? 
Can  I  call  that  home  where  I  anchor  yet, 

Though  my  good  man  has  sailed  ? 
Can  I  call  that  home  where  my  nest  was  set, 

Xow  all  its  hope  hath  failed  ? 
'NsLY,  but  the  port  where  my  saUor  went, 

And  the  land  where  my  nestlings  be  : 
There  is  the  home  where  my  thoughts  are  sent. 

The  only  home  for  me  — 

Ah  me ! 


215 


A  COTTAGE  Ds"  A  CHIXE. 

E  reached  the  place  by  night, 
And  heard  the  waves  breaking : 
They  came  to  meet  us  with  candles 
alight 
To  show  the  path  we  were  taking. 
A  myrtle,  trained  on  the  gate,  was 
white 
With  tufted  flowers  down  shaking. 

With  head  beneath  her  wing, 

A  little  wren  was  sleeping  — 
So  near,  I  had  found  it  an  easy  thing 

To  steal  her  for  my  keeping 
From  the  myrtle  bough  that  with  easy  swing 

Across  the  path  was  sweeping. 

Down  rocky  steps  rough-hewed, 

Where  cup-mosses  flowered, 
And  lander  the  trees,  all  twisted  and  rude. 


216  A   COTTAGE   IN   A   CHINE. 

Wherewith  the  dell  was  dowered, 

They  led  us,  where  deep  in  its  solitude 

Lay  the  cottage,  leaf-embowered. 

The  thatch  was  all  bespread 

With  climbing  passion  flowers  ; 
They  were  wet,  and  glistened  with  raindrops,  shed 

That  day  in  genial  showers. 
**  Was  never  a  sweeter  nest,"  we  said, 

"Than  this  little  nest  of  ours." 

We  laid  us  down  to  sleep : 

But  as  for  me  —  waking, 
I  marked  the  plunge  of  the  muffled  deep 

On  its  sandy  reaches  breaking  ; 
For  heart-joyance  doth  sometimes  keep 

From  slumber,  like  heart-aching. 

And  I  was  glad  that  night. 

With  no  reason  ready, 
To  give  my  own  heart  for  its  deep  dehght, 

That  flowed  like  some  tidal  eddy. 
Or  shone  like  a  star  that  was  rising  bright 

With  comforting  radiance  steadv. 


A    COTTAGE    IN    A    CHINE.  217 

But  on  a  sudden  —  hark  ! 

Music  struck  asunder 
Those  meslies  of  bliss,  and  I  wept  in  the  dark, 

So  sweet  was  the  unseen  wonder ; 
So  swiftly  it  touched,  as  if  struck  at  a  mark, 

The  trouble  that  joy  kept  under. 

I  rose  —  the  moon  outshone  : 

I  saw  the  sea  heaving, 
And  a  little  vessel  sailing  alone, 

The  small  crisp  wavelet  cleaving  ; 
'T  was  she  as  she  sailed  to  her  port  unknown  — 

Was  that  track  of  sweetness  leaving. 

AYe  know  they  music  made 

In  heaven,  ere  man's  creation; 
But  when  God  threw  it  down  to  us  that  strayed, 

It  dropt  with  lamentation. 
And  ever  since  doth  its  sweetness  shade 

With  sighs  for  its  first  station. 

Its  joy  suggests  regret  — 

Its  most  for  more  is  yearning ; 
And  it  brings  to  the  soul  that  its  voice  hath  met, 


218  A    COTTAGE    IN    A    CHINE. 

Xo  rest  that  cadence  learning, 
But  a  conscious  part  in  the  sighs  that  fret 
Its  nature  for  returning. 

0  Eve,  sweet  Eve  !  methought 
When  sometimes  comfort  winning. 

As  she  watched  the  first  children's  tender  sport, 

Sole  joy  born  since  her  sinning, 
If  a  bird  an  car  them  sang,  it  brought 

The  pang  as  at  beginning. 

"While  swam  the  unshed  tear, 

Her  prattlers  little  heeding, 
Would  murmur,  "This  bird,  with  its  carol  clear, 

When  the  red  clay  was  kneaden. 
And  God  made  Adam  our  father  dear. 

Sang  to  him  thus  in  Eden."' 

The  moon  went  in  —  the  sky 
And  earth  and  sea  hiding, 

1  laid  me  down,  with  the  yearning  sigh 

Of  that  strain  in  my  heart  abiding ; 
I  slept,  and  the  barque  that  had  sailed  so  nigh 
In  my  dream  was  ever  gliding. 


A    COTTAGE    IX    A    CHINE.  219 

I  slept,  but  waked  amazed, 

With  sudden  noise  frighted. 
And  voices  without,  and  a  flash  that  dazed 

My  eyes  from  candles  lighted. 
*'  Ah !  surely,-'  methought,  "by  these  shouts  upraised, 

Some  travellers  are  benighted.*' 

A  voice  was  at  my  side  — 

"  "Waken,  madam,  waken  ! 
The  long  prayed-for  ship  at  her  anchor  doth  ride. 

Let  the  child  from  its  rest  be  taken, 
For  the  captain  doth  weary  for  babe  and  for  bride  — 

Waken,  madam,  waken ! 

"The  home  you  left  but  late. 

He  speeds  to  it  light-hearted ; 
By  the  wires  he  sent  this  news,  and  straight 

To  you  with  it  they  started.'' 
O  joy  for  a  yearning  heart  too  great, 

O  union  for  the  parted  ! 

We  rose  up  in  the  night. 

The  morning  star  was  shining ; 
We  carried  the  child  in  its  slumber  light 


220  A    COTTAGE    IX    A    CHIXE. 

Out  by  the  myrtles  twining  : 
Orion  over  the  sea  hung  bright, 
And  glorious  in  declining. 

Mother,  to  meet  her  son. 

Smiled  first,  then  wept  the  rather  ; 
And  wife,  to  bind  up  those  links  undone, 

And  cherished  words  to  gather. 
And  to  show  the  face  of  her  little  one, 

That  had  never  seen  its  father. 

That  cottage  in  a  chine, 

We  were  not  to  behold  it ; 
But  there  may  the  purest  of  sunbeams  shine, 

May  freshest  flowers  enfold  it. 
For  sake  of  the  news  which  our  hearts  must  twine 

"With  the  bower  where  we  were  told  it ! 

Now  oft,  left  lone  again, 

Sit  mother  and  sit  daughter. 
And  bless  the  good  ship  that  sailed  over  the  main, 

And  the  favoring  winds  that  brought  her  ; 
While  stiU  some  new  beauty  they  fable  and  feign 

For  the  cottage  by  the  water. 


221 


PERSEPHOXE. 


"SVritten  for  The  Portfolio  Society,  January,  1862. 


Subject  given  —  "  Ligld  and  Shade. 


HE  stepped  upon  Sicilian  grass, 
Demeter  s  daughter  fresh  and  fair, 
A  child  of  light,  a  radiant  lass, 

And  gamesome  as  the  morning  air. 
The  daffodils  were  fair  to  see. 
They  nodded  lightly  on  the  lea, 
Persephone  —  Persephone  ! 


Lo  !  one  she  marked  of  rarer  growth 

Than  orchis  or  anemone  ; 
For  it  the  maiden  left  them  both. 

And  parted  from  her  company. 


222  LIGHT   AND    SHADE. 

Drawn  nigh  she  deemed  it  fairer  still, 
And  stooped  to  gather  by  the  rill 
The  daffodil,  the  daffodil. 

What  ailed  the  meadow  that  it  shook  ? 

What  ailed  the  air  of  Sicily  ? 
She  wondered  by  the  brattling  brook, 

And  trembled  with  the  trembling  lea. 
"  The  coal-black  horses  rise  —  they  rise  : 
O  mother,  mother  !  "  Ioav  she  cries  — 
Persephone  —  Persephone  ! 

"O  light,  light,  light!"  she  cries,  "farewell; 

The  coal-black  horses  wait  for  me. 
O  shade  of  shades,  where  I  must  dwell, 

Demeter,  mother,  far  from  thee  ! 
Ah,  flited  doom  that  I  fulfil  ! 
Ah,  fateful  llowcr  beside  the  rill ! 
The  daffodil,  the  daffodil !  " 

"Wliat  ails  her  that  she  comes  not  home  ? 

Demeter  seeks  her  far  and  Avide, 
And  gloomy-browed  doth  ceaseless  roam 

From  many  a  morn  till  eventide. 


LIGHT    AND    SHADE.  223 

'*  My  life,  immortal  though  it  be, 

Is  nought,"  she  cries,   "for  want  of  thee, 

Persephone  —  Persephone  ! 

"  Meadows  of  Enna,  let  the  rain 

Xo  longer  drop  to  feed  your  rills, 
Xor  dew  refresh  the  fields  again. 

With  all  their  nodding  daifodils  ! 
Fade,  fade  and  droop,  O  lilied  lea. 
Where  thou,  dear  heart,  wert  reft  from  me  — 
Persephone  —  Persephone  ! " 


She  reigns  upon  her  dusky  throne, 
'Mid  shades  of  heroes  dread  to  see  ; 

Among  the  dead  she  breathes  alone, 
Persephone  —  Persephone ! 

Or  seated  on  the  Elysian  hill 

She  dreams  of  earthly  daylight  still. 

And  murmurs  of  the  daffodil. 

A  voice  in  Hades  soundeth  clear, 
The  shadows  mourn  and  flit  below ; 

It  cries  —  "  Thou  Lord  of  Hades,  hear, 
And  let  Demeter's  daughter  go. 


224  LIGHT    AXD    SHADE. 

The  tender  corn  upon  the  lea 

Droops  in  her  goddess  gloom  when  she 

Cries  for  her  lost  Persephone. 

"  From  land  to  land  she  raging  flies, 
The  green  fruit  falleth  in  her  wake, 

And  harvest  fields  beneath  her  eyes 
To  earth  the  grain  unripened  shake. 

Arise,  and  set  the  maiden  free ; 

Why  should  the  world  such  sorrow  dree 

By  reason  of  Persephone  ?  "' 

lie  takes  the  cleft  pomegranate  seeds  : 
"  Love,  eat  with  me  this  parting  day  ; 

Then  bids  them  fetch  the  coal-black  steeds 
"  Demeter's  daughter,  wouldst  away?  " 

The  gates  of  Hades  set  her  free  ; 

"  She  will  return  full  soon,"  saith  he  — 

"  My  wife,  my  wife  Persephone."' 

Low  laughs  the  dark  king  on  his  throne  — 
"I  gave  her  of  pomegranate  seeds." 

Demeter's  daughter  stands  alone 
L^pon  the  fair  Eleusian  meads. 


LIGHT   AND   SHADE.  225 

Her  mother  meets  her.     "  Hail ! "  saith  she ; 
"  And  doth  our  daylight  dazzle  thee, 
My  love,  my  child  Persephone  ? 

"  What  moved  thee,  daughter,  to  forsake 

Thy  fellow-maids  that  fatal  morn, 
And  give  thy  dark  lord  power  to  take 

Thee  living  to  his  realm  forlorn  ?  " 
Her  lips  reply  without  her  will. 
As  one  addressed  who  slumbereth  still  — 
"  The  daffodil,  the  daffodil !  " 

Her  eyelids  droop  with  light  oppressed. 
And  sunny  wafts  that  round  her  stir. 

Her  cheek  upon  her  mother^s  breast  — 
Demeter's  kisses  comfort  her. 

Calm  Queen  of  Hades,  art  thou  she 

Who  stepped  so  lightly  on  the  lea  — 

Persephone,  Persephone  ? 

When,  in  her  destined  course,  the  moon 
Meets  the  deep  shadow  of  this  world. 

And  laboring  on  doth  seem  to  swoon 

Through  awful  wastes  of  dimness  whirled  — 
15 


226  LIGHT    AND    SHADE. 

Emerged  at  length,  no  trace  liath  she 
Of  that  dark  hour  of  destiny, 
Still  silvery  sweet  —  Persephone. 

The  greater  world  may  near  the  less, 

And  draw  it  through  her  weltering  shade, 

But  not  one  biding  trace  impress 
Of  all  the  darkness  that  she  made  ; 

The  greater  soul  that  draweth  thee 

Hath  left  his  shadow  plain  to  see 

On  thy  fair  face,  Persephone  ! 

Demeter  sighs,  but  sure  'tis  well 
The  wife  should  love  her  destiny : 

They  part,  and  yet,  as  legends  tell, 
She  mourns  her  lost  Persephone  ; 

"While  chant  the  maids  of  Enna  still  — 

"  O  fateful  flower  beside  the  rill  — 

The  daffodil,  the  daffodil !" 


227 


A  SEA  SOXG. 


^^|LD  ALBIOX  sat  on  a  crag  of  late, 
And  sung  out  —  ' '  Ahoy  !  ahoy  ! 
^^  Long  life  to  the  captain,  good  luck 
to  the  mate, 
And  this  to  my  sailor  boy  ! 
Come  over,  come  home, 
Through  the  salt  sea  foam. 
My  sailor,  my  sailor  boy ! 


"  Here's  a  crown  to  be  given  away,  I  ween, 

A  crown  for  my  sailor's  head, 
And  all  for  the  worth  of  a  widowed  queen, 
And  the  love  of  the  noble  dead, 

And  the  fear  and  fame 
.  Of  the  island's  name 
Where  my  bov  was  born  and  bred. 


228  A   SEA  SOXG. 

*'  Content  thee,  content  tliee,  let  it  alone, 

Thou  marked  for  a  choice  so  rare ; 
Though  treaties  be  treaties,  never  a  throne 
Was  proffered  for  cause  as  fair. 
Y*et  come  to  me  home, 
Through  the  salt  sea  foam, 
For  the  Greek  must  ask  elsewhere. 

"  'Tis  pity,  my  sailor,  but  who  can  tell? 

Many  lands  they  look  to  me  ; 

One  of  these  might  be  wanting  a  Prince  as  well, 

But  that's  as  hereafter  may  be."' 

She  raised  her  white  head 

And  laughed ;  and  she  said 

"  That's  as  hereafter  may  be." 


2-2d 


BROTHERS,   AXD  A   SERMON. 


T  was  a  village  built  in  a  green  rent, 
Between  two   cliffs   that   skirt  the 

dangerous  bay. 
A  reef  of  level  rock  runs  out  to  sea, 
And  you  may  lie  on  it  and  look 
sheer  down, 

Just  where  the  "  Grace  of  Sunderland"  was  lost. 
And  see  the  elastic  banners  of  the  dulse 
Rock  softly,  and  the  orange  star-fish  creep 
Across  the  laver,  and  the  mackerel  shoot 
Over  and  under  it,  like  silver  boats 
Turning  at  will  and  plying  under  water. 


There  on  that  reef  we  lay  upon  our  breasts, 
My  brother  and  I,  and  half  the  village  lads. 
For  an  old  fishermen  had  called  to  us 
With    "Sirs,   the  syle  be   come.*'        "And  what  are 
they  ?  " 


230  BROTHERS,    AND    A    SERMON. 

My  brother  said.     '•  Good  lack  !  "  tlie  old  man  cried, 
And  shook  his  head ;  "to  think  you  gentlefolk 
Should  ask  Avhat  syle  be  !     Look  you  ;  I  can't  say 
What  syle  be  called  in  your  fine  dictionaries, 
]^or  what  name  God  Almighty  calls  them  by 
When  their  food's  ready  and  He  sends  them  south ; 
But  our  folk  call  them  syle,  and  nought  but  syle, 
And  when  theyi'c  grown,  why  then  we  call  them  her- 
ring. 
I  tell  you,  Sir,  the  water  is  as  full 
Of  them  as  pastures  be  of  blades  of  grass ; 
You'll  draw  a  score  out  in  a  landing  net, 
And  none  of  them  be  longer  than  a  pin. 

"  Syle  !  ay,  indeed,  we  should  be  badly  off, 
I  reckon,  and  so  would  God  Almighty's  gulls," 
He  grumbled  on  in  his  quaint  piety, 
"  And  all  his  other  birds,  if  He  should  say 
I  will  not  di'ive  my  syle  into  the  south ; 
The  fisher  folk  may  do  without  my  syle. 
And  do  without  the  shoals  of  fish  it  draws 
To  follow  and  feed  on  it," 

This  said,  we  made 
Our  peace  with  him  by  means  of  two  small  coins. 


BROTHERS,    AND    A    SERMON.  231 

And  down  we  ran  and  lay  upon  the  reef, 

And  saw  the  swimming  infants,  emerald  green, 

In  separate  shoals,  the  scarcely  turning  ebb 

Bringing  them  in ;  while  sleek,  and  not  intent 

On  chase,  but  taking  that  which  came  to  hand, 

The  full-fed  mackerel  and  the  gurnet  swam 

Between ;  and  settling  on  the  polished  sea, 

A  thousand  snow-white  gulls  sat  lovingly 

In  social  rings,  and  twittered  while  they  fed. 

The  village  dogs  and  ours,  elate  and  brave, 

Lay  looking  over,  barking  at  the  fish ; 

Fast,  fast  the  silver  creatures  took  the  bait, 

And  when  they  heaved  and  floundered  on  the  rock, 

In  beauteous  misery,  a  sudden  pat 

Some  shaggy  pup  would  deal,  then  back  away. 

At  distance  eye  them  with  sagacious  doubt, 

And  shrink  half  frighted  from  the  slippery  things. 

And  so  we  lay  from  ebb-tide,  till  the  flow 
Rose  high  enough  to  drive  us  from  the  reef; 
The  fisher  lads  went  home  across  the  sand ; 
We  climbed  the  cliff,  and  sat  an  hour  or  more. 
Talking  and  looking  down.     It  was  not  talk 
Of  much  significance,  except  for  this  — 


232  BROTHERS,    AND    A   SERMON. 

That  we  had  more  in  common  than  of  old, 
For  both  were  tired,  I  with  overwork. 
He  with  inaction  ;  I  was  glad  at  heart 
To  rest,  and  he  was  glad  to  have  an  ear 
That  he  could  grumble  to,  and  half  in  jest 
Rail  at  entails,  deplore  the  fate  of  heirs. 
And  the  misfortune  of  a  good  estate  — 
Misfortune  that  was  sure  to  pull  him  down, 
Make  him  a  dreamy,  selfish,  useless  man : 
Indeed  he  felt  himself  deteriorate 
-Already.     Thereupon  he  sent  down  showers 
Of  clattering  stones,  to  emphasize  his  words, 
And  leap  the  cliffs  and  tumble  noisily 
Into  the  seething  wave.     And  as  for  me, 
I  railed  at  him  and  at  ingratitude. 
While  rifling  of  the  basket  he  had  slung 
Across  his  shoulders  ;  then  with  right  good  will 
We  fell  to  work,  and  feasted  like  the  gods, 
Like  laborers,  or  like  eager  workhouse  folk 
At  Yuletide  dinner ;  or,  to  say  the  whole 
At  once,  like  tired,  hungry,  healthy  youth, 
Until  the  meal  being  o'er,  the  tilted  flask 
Drained  of  its  latest  drop,  the  meat  and  bread 
And  ruddy  cherries  eaten,  and  the  dogs 


BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON.  233 

Mumbling  the  bones,  this  elder  brother  of  mine  — 

This  man,  that  never  felt  an  ache  or  pain 

In  his  broad,  well-knit  frame,  and  never  knew 

The  trouble  of  an  unforgiven  grudge, 

The  sting  of  a  regretted  meanness,  nor 

The  desperate  struggle  of  the  unendowed 

For  place  and  for  possession  —  he  began 

To  sing  a  rhyme  that  he  himself  had  wrought ; 

Sending  it  out  with  cogitative  pause. 

As  if  the  scene  where  he  had  shaped  it  first 

Had  rolled  it  back  on  him,  and  meeting  it 

Thus  unaware,  he  was  of  doubtful  mind 

Whether  his  dignity  it  well  beseemed 

To  sing  of  pretty  maiden  : 


Goldilocks  sat  on  the  grass, 

Tying  up  of  posies  rare ; 
Hardly  could  a  sunbeam  pass 

Through  the  cloud  that  was  her  hair. 
Purple  orchis  lasteth  long, 

Primrose  flowers  are  pale  and  clear; 
O  the  maiden  sang  a  song 

It  would  do  you  good  to  hear ! 


234  BROTHERS,    A2sD    A    SERMON. 

Sad  before  her  leaned  the  boy, 

"  Goldilocks  that  I  love  well, 
Happy  creature  fair  and  coy, 

Think  o'  me,  Sweet  Amabel." 
Goldilocks  she  shook  apart, 

Looked  with  doubtful,  doubtful  eyes ; 
Like  a  blossom  on  her  heart 

Opened  out  her  first  surprise. 

As  a  gloriole  sign  o'  grace, 

Goldilocks,  ah  fall  and  flow, 
On  the  blooming,  childlike  face, 

Dimple,  dimple,  come  and  go. 
Give  her  time ;  on  grass  and  sky 

Let  her  gaze  if  she  be  fain : 
As  they  looked  ere  he  drew  nigh, 

They  will  never  look  again. 

Ah !  the  playtime  she  has  known. 

While  her  goldilocks  grew  long, 
Is  it  like  a  nestling  flown. 

Childhood  over  like  a  song? 
Yes,  the  boy  may  clear  his  brow. 

Though  she  thinks  to  say  him  nay, 
When  she  sighs,  "  I  cannot  now  — 

Come  again  some  other  day." 


BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMOX.  235 

"Hold  !  there,"  he  cried,  half  angry  with  himself; 

"  That  ending  goes  amiss  :  "  then  turned  again 

To  the  old  argument  that  we  had  held  — 

"  Now  look  you  !  "  said  my  brother,  "you  may  talk 

Till,  weary  of  the  talk,  I  answer  '  Ay, 

There's  reason  in  your  words  ; '  and  you  may  talk 

Till  I  go  on  to  say,  '  This  should  be  so  ; ' 

And  you  may  talk  till  I  shall  further  own 

'  It  IS  so  ;  yes,  I  am  a  lucky  dog  ! ' 

Yet  not  the  less  shall  I  next  morning  wake, 

And  with  a  natural  and  fervent  sigh, 

Such  as  you  never  heaved,  I  shall  exclaim 

'  What  an  unlucky  dog  I  am  ! '  "     And  here 

He  broke  into  a  laugh.     "  But  as  for  you  — 

You  !  on  all  hands  you  have  the  best  of  me  ; 

Men  have  not  robbed  you  of  your  birthright  —  work, 

Nor  ravaged  in  old  days  a  peaceful  field, 

Nor  wedded  heiresses  against  their  will, 

Nor  sinned,  nor  slaved,  nor  stooped,  nor  overreached, 

That  you  might  drone  a  useless  life  away 

'Mid  half  a  score  of  bleak  and  barren  farms 

And  half  a  dozen  bogs." 

' '  O  rare  ! "  I  cried ; 
"  His  wrongs  go  nigh  to  m.ake  him  eloquent : 


236  BROTHERS,    AXD   A   SERMON. 

Now  we  behold  bow  far  bad  actions  reach  ! 

Because  five  hundred  years  ago  a  Knight 

Drove  geese  and  beeves  out  from  a  Franklin's  yard ; 

Because  three  hundred  years  ago  a  squire  — 

Against  her  will,  and  for  her  fair  estate  — 

Married  a  very  ugly,  red-haired  maid. 

The  blest  inheritor  of  all  their  pelf, 

AVhile  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  the  same, 

Sighs  on  his  own  confession  every  day. 

He  cracks  no  egg  without  a  moral  sigh, 

Nor  eats  of  beef  but  thinking  on  that  wrong  ; 

Then,  yet  the  more  to  be  revenged  on  them, 

And  shame  their  ancient  pride,  if  they  should  know, 

"Woi'ks  hard  as  any  horse  for  his  degree. 

And  takes  to  writing  verses." 

"  Ay,"  he  said, 
Half  laughing  at  himself.      "  Yet  you  and  I, 
But  for  those  tresses  which  enrich  us  yet 
With  somewhat  of  the  hue  that  partial  fame 
Calls  auburn  when  it  shines  on  heads  of  heirs. 
But  when  it  flames  round  brows  of  younger  sons, 
Just  red  —  mere  red  ;  Avhy,  but  for  this,  I  say. 
And  but  for  selfish  getting  of  the  land. 
And  begricarlv  entaih'no;  it,  we  two, 


BROTHERS,  AXD  A  SERMON.  237 

To-day  well  fed,  well  grown,  well  dressed,  well  read, 
We  might  have  been  two  horny-handed  boors  — 
Lean,  clumsy,  ignorant,  and  ragged  boors  — 
Planning  for  moonlight  nights  a  poaching  scheme, 
Or  soiling  our  dull  souls  and  consciences 
With  plans  for  pilfering  a  cottage  roost. 

*'What,   chorus!    are  you  dumb?    you   should   have 

cried, 
*  So  good  comes  out  of  evil ; '  "  and  with  that, 
As  if  all  pauses  it  was  natural 
To  seize  for  songs,  his  voice  broke  out  again : 

Coo,  dove,  to  thy  married  mate — 

She  has  two  warm  eggs  in  her  nest : 
Tell  her  the  hours  are  few  to  wait 

Ere  life  shall  dawn  on  their  rest  ; 
And  thy  young  shall  peck  at  the  shells,  elate 

With  a  dream  of  her  brooding  breast. 

Coo,  dove,  for  she  counts  the  hours, 

Her  fair  wings  ache  for  flight : 
By  day  the  apple  has  grown  in  the  flowers. 

And  the  moon  has  grown  by  night, 
And  the  white  drift  settled  from  hawthorn  bowers, 

Yet  they  will  not  seek  the  light. 


238  BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON. 

Coo,  dove ;  but  what  of  the  sky  ? 

And  what  if  the  storm-wind  swell, 
And  the  reeling  branch  come  down  from  on  high 

To  the  grass  where  daisies  dwell, 
And  the  brood  beloved  should  with  them  lie 

Or  ever  they  break  the  shell  ? 

Coo,  dove ;  and  yet  black  clouds  lower, 

Like  fate,  on  the  far-off  sea  : 
Thunder  and  wind  they  bear  to  thy  bower. 

As  on  wings  of  destiny. 
Ah,  what  if  they  break  in  an  evil  hour, 

As  they  broke  over  mine  and  me '? 

What  next  ?  —  we  started  like  to  girls,  for  lo  ! 
The  creaking  voice,  more  harsh  than  rusty  crane, 
Of  one  who  stooped  behind  us,  cried  aloud, 
"  Good  lack  I  how  sweet  the  gentleman  does  sing  — 
So  loud  and  sweet,  'tis  like  to  split  his  throat. 
Why,  Mike's  a  child  to  him,  a  two-years  child  — 
A  Chrisom  child.'' 

"  Who's  ]Mike  ?  "  my  brother  growled 
A  little  roughly.     Quoth  the  fisherman  — 
"  Mike,  Sir?  he's  just  a  fisher  lad,  no  more  ; 
But  he  can  sing,  when  he  takes  on  to  sing. 


BROTHERS,    A>.D    A    SERMON.  239 

So  loud  there's  not  a  sparrow  in  the  spire 
But  needs  must  liear.     Sir,  if  I  might  make  bold, 
I'd  ask  what  song  that  was  you  sung.     My  mate, 
As  we  were  shoving  off  the  mackerel  boats, 
Said  he,  '  III  wager  that's  the  sort  o'  song 
They  kept  their  hearts  up  with  in  the  Crimea.' " 

"  There,  fisherman,"  quoth  I,  "  he  showed  his  wit, 
Your  mate  ;  he  marked  the  sound  of  savage  war  — 
Gunpowder,  groans,  hot-shot,  and  bursting  shells. 
And  '  murderous  messages '  delivered  by 
Spent  balls  that  break  the  heads  of  dreaming  men." 

*'  Ay,  ay.  Sir  ! "  quoth  the  fisherman.     "  Have  done  !" 

My  brother.     And  I —  "  The  gift  belongs  to  few 

Of  sending  farther  than  the  words  can  reach 

Their  spirit  and  expression  ;  "  still —  "  Have  done  !" 

He  cried  ;  and  then,  "  I  rolled  the  rubbish  out 

More  loudly  than  the  meaning  warranted, 

To  air  my  lungs  —  I  thought  not  on  the  words." 

Then  said  the  fisherman,  who  missed  the  point, 

"  So  Mike  rolls  out  the  psalm ;  you'll  hear  him.  Sir, 

Please  God  you  live  till  Sunday." 


240  BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON. 

"  Even  so : 
And  you,  too,  fisherman ;  for  here,  they  say, 
You  all  are  church-goers." 

"  Surely,  Sir,"  quoth  he. 
Took  off  his  hat,  and  stroked  his  old  white  head 
And  wrinkled  face  ;  then  sitting  by  us  said, 
As  one  that  utters  with  a  quiet  mind 
Unchallenged  truth  —  "  'Tis  lucky  for  the  boats." 

The  boats  !  'tis  lucky  for  the  boats  !     Our  eyes 
Were  drawn  to  him  as  either  fain  would  say, 
\Yhat !  do  they  send  the  psalm  up  in  the  spire 
And  pray  because  "tis  lucky  for  the  boats  ? 

But  he,  the  brown  old  man,  the  wrinkled  man, 
That  all  his  life  had  been  a  church-goer. 
Familiar  with  celestial  cadences. 
Informed  of  all  he  could  receive,  and  sure 
Of  all  he  understood — he  sat  content, 
And  we  kept  silence.     In  his  reverend  face 
There  was  a  simpleness  we  could  not  sound ; 
Much  truth  had  passed  him  overhead ;  some  error 
He  liad  trod  under  foot  ;  —  God  comfort  him ! 
He  could  not  learn  of  us,  for  we  were  vouno: 


BROTHERS,    AXD    A    SERMON.  241 

And  be  was  old,  and  so  we  gave  it  up ; 
And  the  sun  went  into  the  west,  and  down 
Upon  the  water  stooped  an  orange  cloud. 
And  the  pale  milky  reaches  flushed,  as  glad 
To  wear  its  colors  ;  and  the  sultry  air 
Went  out  to  sea,  and  puffed  the  sails  of  ships 
With  thymy  wafts,  the  breath  of  trodden  grass  : 
It  took  moreover  music,  for  across 
The  heather  belt  and  over  pasture  land 
Came  the  sweet  monotone  of  one  slow  bell, 
And  parted  time  into  divisions  rare. 
Whereof  each  morsel  brought  its  own  delight. 

"  They  ring  for  service,"  quoth  the  fisherman; 
"  Our  parson  preaches  in  the  church  to-night." 

"  And  do  the  people  go  ?  "  my  brother  asked. 

* '  Ay,  Sir ;  they  count  it  mean  to  stay  away, 
He  takes  it  so  to  heart.     He's  a  rare  man, 
Our  parson ;  half  a  head  above  us  all." 

"  That's  a  great  gift  and  notable,"  said  I. 
16 


242  liROTHERS,    AND    A    SERMON. 

' '  Ay,  Sir ;  and  when  he  was  a  younger  man 

He  went  out  in  the  lifeboat  very  oft, 

Before  the  '  Grace  of  Sunderland '  was  wrecked. 

He"'s  never  been  his  own  man  since  that  hour ; 

For  there  were  thirty  men  aboard  of  her, 

Anigh  as  close  as  you  are  now  to  me. 

And  ne'er  a  one  was  saved. 

They're  lying  now. 
With  two  small  children,  in  a  row :  the  church 
And  yard  are  full  of  seamen's  graves,  and  few 
Have  any  names. 

She  bumped  upon  the  reef; 
Our  parson,  my  young  son,  and  several  more 
AVere  lashed  together  with  a  two-inch  rope, 
And  crept  along  to  her  ;  their  mates  ashore 
Ready  to  haul  them  in.     The  gale  was  high. 
The  sea  was  all  a  boiling  seething  froth. 
And  God  Almighty's  guns  were  going  off. 
And  the  laud  trembled. 

"When  she  took  the  grounc 
She  went  to  pieces  like  a  lock  of  hay 
Tossed  from  a  pitchfork.     Ere  it  came  to  that, 
The  captain  reeled  on  deck  with  two  small  things, 


BROTHERS,    AND   A   SERMOX.  243 

One  in  each  arm  —  bis  little  lad  and  lass. 
Their  hair  was  long,  and  blew  before  his  face, 
Or  else  we  thought  he  had  been  saved ;  he  fell, 
But  held  them  fast.     The  crew,  poor  luckless  souls  ! 
The  breakers  licked  them  off;  and  some  were  crushed, 
Some  swallowed  in  the  yeast,  some  flung  up  dead. 
The  dear  breath  beaten  out  of  them  :  not  one 
Jumped  from  the  wreck  upon  the  reef  to  catch 
The  hands  that  strained  to  reach,  but  tumbled  back 
With  eyes  wide  open.     But  the  captain  lay 
And  clung  —  the  only  man  alive.     They  prayed  — 
'  For  God's  sake,  captain,  throw  the  children  here  ! ' 
'  Throw  them  ! '  our  parson  cried  ;  and  then  she  struck : 
And  he  threw  one,  a  pretty  two-years  child ; 
But  the  gale  dashed  him  on  the  slippery  verge. 
And  down  he  went.     They  say  they  heard  him  cry. 

*'  Then  he  rose  up  and  took  the  other  one, 

And  all  our  men  reached  out  their  hungry  arms. 

And  cried  out,  '  Throw  her,  throw  her  ! '  and  he  did  : 

He  threw  her  right  against  the  parson's  breast. 

And  all  at  once  a  sea  broke  over  them. 

And  they  that  saw  it  from  the  shore  have  said 

It  struck  the  wreck  and  piecemeal  scattered  it, 


244  BROTHERS,    AXD    A   SERMON. 

Just  as  a  -woniaii  might  the  lump  of  salt 
That  'twixt  her  hands  into  the  kneading-pan 
She  breaks  and  crumbles  on  her  rising  bread. 

"  We  hauled  our  men  in  :  two  of  them  were  dead  - 
The  sea  had  beaten  them,  their  heads  hung  down ; 
Our  parson's  arms  were  empty,  for  the  wave 
Had  torn  away  the  pretty,  pretty  lamb ; 
"We  often  see  him  stand  beside  her  grave : 
But  'twas  no  fault  of  his,  no  fault  of  his. 

*'  I  ask  your  pardon.  Sirs  ;  I  prate  and  prate, 
And  never  have  I  said  -what  brought  me  here. 
Sirs,  if  you  want  a  boat  to-morrow  morn, 
I'm  bold  to  say  there's  ne'er  a  boat  like  mine." 

*'  Ay,  that  was  what  we  wanted,"  we  replied  ; 

*'  A  boat,  his  boat ;  "  and  off  he  went,  well  pleased. 

We,  too,  rose  up  (the  crimson  in  the  sky- 
Flushing  our  faces) ,  and  went  sauntering  on, 
And  thought  to  reach  our  lodging,  by  the  cliff. 
And  up  and  down  among  the  heather  beds, 
And  up  and  down  between  the  sheaves,  we  sped, 


BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON.  215 

Doubling  and  winding  ;  for  a  long  ravine 
Ran  up  into  the  land  and  cut  us  off, 
Pushing  out  slippery  ledges  for  the  birds, 
And  rent  with  many  a  crevice,  where  the  wind 
Had  laid  up  drifts  of  empty  eggshells,  swept 
From  the  bare  berths  of  gulls  and  guillemots. 

So  as  it  chanced  we  lighted  on  a  path 

That  led  into  a  nutwood ;  and  our  talk 

Was  louder  than  beseemed,  if  we  had  known, 

With  argument  and  laughter;  for  the  path, 

As  we  sped  onward,  took  a  sudden  turn 

Abrupt,  and  we  came  out  on  churchyard  grass. 

And  close  upon  a  porch,  and  face  to  face 

AVith  those  within,  and  with  the  thirty  graves. 

We  heard  the  voice  of  one  who  preached  within. 

And  stopped.      "Come   on,"  my  brother  whispered 

me  ; 
*'  It  were  more  decent  that  we  enter  now ; 
Come  on  I  we'll  hear  this  rare  old  demigod  : 
I  like  strong  men  and  large  ;  I  like  grey  heads, 
And  grand  gruff  voices,  hoarse  though  this  may  be 
With  shouting  in  the  storm." 

It  was  not  hoarse, 


24:6  BROTHERS,    AND    A    SERMON. 

The  voice  that  preached  to  those  few  fishermen 

And  women,  nursing  mothers  with  the  babes 

Hushed  on  their  breasts  ;  and  yet  it  held  them  not : 

Their  drowsy  eyes  were  drawn  to  look  at  us, 

Till,  having  leaned  our  rods  against  the  Avail, 

And  left  the  dogs  at  watch,  we  entered,  sat, 

And  were  apprised  that,  though  he  saw  us  not, 

The  parson  knew  that  he  had  lost  the  eyes 

And  ears  of  those  before  him,  for  he  made 

A  pause  —  a  long  dead  pause  —  and  dropped  his  arms, 

And  stood  awaiting,  till  I  felt  the  red 

Mount  to  my  brow. 

And  a  soft  fluttering  stir 
Passed  over  all,  and  every  mother  hushed 
The  babe  beneath  her  shawl,  and  he  turned  round 
And  met  our  eyes,  unused  to  diffidence, 
But  diffident  of  his  ;  then  with  a  sigh 
Fronted  the  folk,  lifted  his  grand  grey  head, 
And  said,  as  one  that  pondered  now  the  w^ords 
He  had  been  preaching  on  with  new  surprise, 
And  found  fresh  marvel  in  their  sound,  "  Behold  ! 
Behold!"  saith  He,  "I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock." 

Then  said  the  parson  :   "  What !  and  shall  He  wait. 
And  must  He  wait,  not  only  till  we  say, 


BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON.  247 

'  Good  Lord,  the  house  is  clean,  the  hearth  is  swept. 

The  children  sleep,  the  mackerel-boats  are  in. 

And  all  the  nets  are  mended ;  therefore  I 

"Will  slowly  to  the  door  and  open  it : ' 

But  must  He  also  wait  where  still,  behold ! 

He  stands  and  knocks,  while  we  do  say,  '  Good  Lord, 

The  gentlefolk  are  come  to  worship  here. 

And  I  will  up  and  open  to  Thee  soon ; 

But  first  I  pray  a  little  longer  wait. 

For  I  am  taken  up  with  them ;  my  eyes 

Must  needs  regard  the  fashion  of  their  clothes, 

And  count  the  gains  I  think  to  make  by  them ; 

Forsooth,  they  are  of  much  account,  good  Lord ! 

Therefore  have  patience  with  me  —  wait,  dear  Lord! 

Or  come  again  ?  ' 

What !  must  He  wait  for  this  — 
For  this  ?     Ay,  He  doth  wait  for  this,  and  still. 
Waiting  for  this,  He,  patient,  raileth  not ; 
Waiting  for  this,  e'en  this  He  saith,  '  Behold ! 
I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock/ 

O  patient  hand ! 
Knocking  and  waiting  —  knocking  in  the  night 
"VAHien  work  is  done  !     I  charge  you,  by  the  sea 
Whereby  you  fill  your  children's  mouths,  and  by 


248  BROTHERS,  AXD  A  SERMOX. 

The  might  of  Him  that  made  it  —  fishermen  ! 

I  charge  you,  mothers  !  by  the  mother's  milk 

He  drew,  and  by  His  Father,  God  over  all, 

Blessed  for  ever,  that  ye  answer  Him  ! 

Open  the  door  Avith  sliame,  if  ye  have  sinned; 

If  ye  be  sorry,  open  it  with  sighs. 

Albeit  the  place  be  bare  for  poverty, 

And  comfortless  for  lack  of  plenishing, 

Be  not  abashed  for  that,  but  open  it. 

And  take  Him  in  that  comes  to  sup  with  thee  ; 

'  Behold  ! '  He  saith,  '  I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock.' 

"  Xow,  hear  me  :  there  be  troubles  in  this  world 
That  no  man  can  escape,  and  there  is  one 
That  lietli  hard  and  heavy  on  my  soul, 
Concerning  that  which  is  to  come  :  — 

I  say 
As  a  man  that  knows  what  earthly  trouble  means, 
I  will  not  bear  this  one  —  I  cannot  bear 
This  OXE  —  I  cannot  bear  the  weight  of  you  — 
You  —  every  one  of  you,  body  and  soul; 
You,  with  the  care  you  suffer,  and  the  loss 
That  you  sustain ;  you,  with  the  growing  up 
To  peril,  maybe  with  the  growing  old 


BROTHERS,    AND   A    SERMON.  249 

To  want,  unless  before  I  stand  with  you 

At  the  great  white  throne,  I  may  be  free  of  all. 

And  utter  to  the  full  what  shall  discharge 

Mine  obligation  :  nay,  I  will  not  wait 

A  day,  for  every  time  the  black  clouds  rise, 

And  the  gale  freshens,  still  I  search  my  soul 

To  find  if  there  be  aught  that  can  persuade 

To  good,  or  aught  forsooth  that  can  beguile 

From  evil,  that  I  (miserable  man ! 

If  that  be  so)  have  left  unsaid,  undone. 

"  So  that  when  any  risen  from  sunken  wrecks. 

Or  rolled  in  by  the  billows  to  the  edge 

Of  the  everlasting  strand,  what  time  the  sea 

Gives  up  her  dead,  shall  meet  me,  they  may  say 

Never,  '  Old  man,  you  told  us  not  of  this  ; 

You  left  us  fisher-lads  that  had  to  toil 

Ever  in  danger  of  the  secret  stab 

Of  rocks,  far  deadlier  than  the  dagger ;  winds 

Of  breath  more  murderous  than  the  cannon's  ;  waves 

Mighty  to  rock  us  to  our  death  ;  and  gulfs 

Ready  beneath  to  suck  and  swallow  us  in : 

This  crime  be  on  your  head  ;  and  as  for  us  — 

What  shall  we  do  ?  '  but  rather  —  nav,  not  so. 


250  BROTHERS,    AXD   A    SERMOX. 

I  will  not  think  it ;  I  will  leave  the  dead, 

Appealing  but  to  life  :  I  am  afraid 

Of  you,  but  not  so  much  if  you  have  sinned 

As  for  the  doubt  if  sin  shall  be  forgiven. 

The  day  was,  I  have  been  afraid  of  pride  ^ 

Hard  man's  hard  pride  ;  but  now  I  am  afraid 

Of  man's  humility.     I  counsel  you, 

By  the  great  God's  great  humbleness,  and  by 

His  pity,  be  not  humble  over-much. 

See  !  I  will  show  at  whose  unopened  doors 

He  stands  and  knocks,  that  you  may  never  say, 

'  I  am  too  mean,  too  ignorant,  too  lost ; 

He  knocks  at  other  doors,  but  not  at  mine.' 

"  See  here  !  it  is  the  night !  it  is  the  night ! 
And  snow  lies  thickly,  while  untrodden  snow, 
And  the  wan  moon  upon  a  casement  shines  — 
A  casement  crusted  o'er  with  frosty  leaves. 
That  make  her  ray  less  bright  along  the  floor. 
A  woman  sits,  with  hands  upon  her  knees, 
Poor  tired  soul !  and  she  has  nought  to  do, 
For  there  is  neither  fire  nor  candle  light : 
The  driftwood  ash  lies  cold  upon  her  hearth ; 
The  rushlight  flickered  down  an  hour  ago  ; 


BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON.  251 

Her  children  wail  a  little  in  their  sleep 
For  cold  and  hunger,  and,  as  if  that  sound 
Was  not  enough,  another  comes  to  her. 
Over  God''s  undefiled  snow  —  a  song  — 
Nay,  never  hang  your  heads  —  I  say,  a  song. 

"  And  doth  she  curse  the  alehouse,  and  the  sots 
That  drink  the  night  out  and  their  earnings  there. 
And  drink  their  manly  strength  and  courage  down, 
And  drink  away  t-he  lit-t-le  children's  bread, 
And  starve  her,  starving  by  the  self-same  act 
Her  tender  suckling,  that  with  piteous  eyes 
Looks  in  her  face,  till  scarcely  she  has  heart 
To  work,  and  earn  the  scanty  bit  and  drop 
That  feed  the  others  ? 

Does  she  curse  the  song  ? 
I  think  not,  fishermen  ;  I  have  not  heard 
Such  women  curse.     God's  curse  is  curse  enough. 
To-morrow  she  will  say  a  bitter  thing. 
Pulling  her  sleeve  down  lest  the  bruises  show  — 
A  bitter  thing,  but  meant  for  an  excuse  — 
'  My  master  is  not  worse  than  many  men  : ' 
But  now,  ay,  now  she  sitteth  dumb  and  still ; 
No  food,  no  comfort,  cold  and  poverty 
Bearinsf  her  down. 


252  BROTHERS,    AND   A   SERMON. 

My  heart  is  sore  for  her ; 
How  long,  how  long?     When  troubles  come  of  God, 
When  men  are  frozen  out  of  work,  when  wives 
Are  sick,  when  working  fathers  fail  and  die. 
When  boats  go  doAvn  at  sea  —  then  nought  behooves 
Like  patience  ;  but  for  troubles  wrought  of  men 
Patience  is  hard  —  I  tell  you  it  is  hard. 

"  O  thou  poor  soul !  it  is  the  night  —  the  night ; 

Against  thy  door  drifts  up  the  silent  snow, 

Blockmg  thy  threshold :  'Fall,'  thou  sayest,  '  fall,  fall, 

Cold  snow,  and  lie  and  be  trod  underfoot. 

Am  not  I  fallen  ?  wake  up,  and  pipe,  O  wind, 

Dull  wind,  and  beat  and  bluster  at  my  door : 

Merciful  wind,  sing  me  a  hoarse  rough  song. 

For  there  is  other  music  made  to-night 

That  I  would  fain  not  hear.     AVake,  thou  still  sea, 

Heavily  plunge.     Shoot  on,  white  waterfall. 

O,  I  could  long  like  thy  cold  icicles 

Freeze,  freeze,  and  hang  upon  the  frosty  clift 

And  not  complain,  so  I  might  melt  at  last 

In  the  Avarm  summer  sun,  as  thou  wilt  do ! 

*' '  But  woe  is  me  !  I  think  there  is  no  sun  ; 
My  sun  is  sunken,  and  the  night  grows  dark ; 


BROTHERS,    AND    A   SERMON.  253 

None  care  for  me.     The  children  cry  for  bread, 
And  I  have  none,  and  nought  can  comfort  me ; 
Even  if  the  heavens  were  free  to  such  as  I, 
It  were  not  much,  for  death  is  long  to  wait. 
And  heaven  is  far  to  go  ! ' 

"And  speak'st  thou  thus. 
Despairing  of  the  sun  that  sets  to  thee, 
And  of  the  earthly  love  that  wanes  to  thee, 
And  of  the  heaven  that  Heth  far  from  thee  ? 
Peace,  peace,  fond  fool !     One  draweth  near  thy  door 
Whose  footsteps  leave  no  print  across  the  snow ; 
Thy  sun  has  risen  with  comfort  in  his  face. 
The  smile  of  heaven,  to  warm  thy  frozen  heart, 
And  bless  with  saintly  hand.     AVhat !  is  it  long 
To  wait  and  far  to  go  ?     Thou  shalt  not  go  ; 
Behold,  across  the  snow  to  thee  He  comes, 
Thy  heaven  descends,  and  is  it  long  to  wait.^ 
Thou  shalt  not  wait :  '  This  night,  this  night,'  He  saith, 
'  I  stand  at  the  door  aird  knock.' 

"  It  is  enough — can  such  an  one  be  here  — 
Yea,  here  ?  O  God  forgive  you,  fishermen  ! 
One  !  is  there  onlv  one  ?     But  do  thou  know, 


254  BROTHERS,    AND    A    SERMOX. 

0  woman  pale  for  want,  if  thou  art  here. 

That  on  thy  lot  much  thought  is  spent  in  heaven ; 
And,  coveting  the  heart  a  hard  man  broke, 
One  standeth  patient,  watching  in  the  night, 
And  waiting  in  the  day-time. 

What  shall  be 
K  thou  wilt  answer  ?     lie  will  smile  on  thee  ; 
One  smile  of  His  shall  be  enough  to  heal 
The  wound  of  man's  neglect;  and  He  will  sigh, 
Pitying  the  trouble  which  that  sigh  shall  cure ; 
And  He  will  speak  —  speak  in  the  desolate  night, 
In  the  dark  night :   '  For  me  a  thorny  crown 
Men  wove,  and  nails  were  driven  in  my  hands 
And  feet :  there  was  an  earthquake,  and  I  died ; 

1  died,  and  am  alive  for  evermore. 

"  '  I  died  for  thee  ;  for  thee  I  am  alive. 
And  my  humanity  doth  mourn  for  thee. 
For  thou  art  mine  ;  and  all  thy  little  ones. 
They,  too,  are  mine,  are  mine.     Behold,  the  house 
Is  dark,  but  there  is  brightness  where  the  sons 
Of  God  are  singing,  and,  behold,  the  heart 
Is  troubled  :  yet  the  nations  walk  in  white  ; 
They  have  forgotten  how  to  Aveep  ;  and  thou 


BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMOX.  255 

Shalt  also  come,  and  I  will  foster  thee 
And  satisfy  thy  soul ;  and  thou  shalt  warm 
Thv  trembling  life  beneath  the  smile  of  God. 
A  little  while  —  it  is  a  little  while  — 
A  little  while,  and  I  will  comfort  thee, 
I  go  away,  but  I  Avill  come  again.' 

"  But  hear  me  yet.     There  was  a  poor  old  man 
AVho  sat  and  listened  to  the  raging  sea, 
And  hea^-d  it  thunder,  lunging  at  the  cliffs 
As  like  to  tear  them  down.     He  lay  at  night ; 
And  '  Lord  have  mercy  on  the  lads,'  said  he, 
'That  sailed  at  noon,  though  they  be  none  of  mine? 
For  when  the  gale  gets  up,  and  when  the  wind 
Flings  at  the  window,  when  it  beats  the  roof, 
And  lulls,  and  stops,  and  rouses  up  again. 
And  cuts  the  crest  clean  off  the  plunging  wave. 
And  scatters  it  like  feathers  up  the  field, 
Why,  then  I  think  of  my  two  lads  :  my  lads 
That  would  have  worked  and  never  let  me  want, 
And  never  let  me  take  the  parish  pay. 
Xo,  none  of  mine ;  my  lads  were  drowned  at  sea  — 
IMy  two — before  the  most  of  these  were  born. 
I  know  how  sharp  that  cuts,  since  my  poor  wife 


256  BROTHERS,    A>sD   A   SERMON. 

Walked  up  and  down,  and  still  walked  up  and  down, 

And  I  walked  after,  and  one  could  not  hear 

A  word  the  other  said,  for  wind  and  sea 

That  raged  and  beat  and  thundered  in  the  night  — 

The  awfullest,  the  longest,  lightest  night 

That  ever  parents  had  to  spend  —  a  moon 

That  shone  like  daylight  on  the  breaking  wave. 

Ah  me  !  and  other  men  have  lost  their  lads. 

And  other  women  wiped  their  poor  dead  mouths. 

And  got  them  home  and  dried  them  in  the  house, 

And  seen  the  driftwood  lie  along  the  coast. 

That  was  a  tidy  boat  but  one  day  back, 

And  seen  next  tide  the  neighbors  gather  it 

To  lay  it  on  their  fires. 

Ay,  I  was  strong 
And  able-bodied  —  loved  my  work  ;  — but  now 
I  am  a  useless  hull :  'tis  time  I  sunk  ; 
I  am  in  all  men's  way ;  I  trouble  them ; 
I  am  a  trouble  to  myself:  but  yet 
I  feel  for  mariners  of  stormy  nights. 
And  feel  for  wives  that  watch  ashore.     Ay,  ay! 
If  I  had  learning  I  would  pray  the  Lord 
To  bring  them  in  :  but  Tm  no  scholar,  no  ; 
Book-learning  is  a  world  too  hard  for  me  : 


BROTHERS,    .NJST)    A    SERMON.  257 

But  I  make  bold  to  say,  '  O  Lord,  good  Lord, 

I  am  a  broken-down  poor  man,  a  fool 

To  speak  to  Thee  :  but  in  the  Book  'tis  writ. 

As  I  hear  say  from  others  that  can  read, 

How,  when  Thou  camest.  Thou  didst  love  the  sea, 

And  live  with  fisherfolk,  whereby  'tis  sure 

Thou  knowest  all  the  peril  they  go  through. 

And  all  their  trouble. 

As  for  me,  good  Lord, 
I  have  no  boat ;  I  am  too  old,  too  old  — 
My  lads  are  drowned  ;  I  buried  my  poor  wife  ; 
My  little  lasses  died  so  long  ago 
That  mostly  I  forget  what  they  were  like. 
Thou  knowest,  Lord ;  they  were  such  little  ones 
I  know  they  went  to  Thee,  but  I  forget 
Their  faces,  though  I  missed  them  sore, 

O  Lord, 
I  was  a  strong  man ;  I  have  drawn  good  food 
And  made  good  money  out  of  Thy  great  sea : 
But  yet  I  cried  for  them  at  nights  ;  and  now, 
Although  I  be  so  old,  I  miss  my  lads. 
And  there  be  many  folk  this  stormy  night 
Heavy  with  fear  for  theirs.     Merciful  Lord, 
Comfort  them;  save  their  honest  boys,  their  pride, 
17 


258  BEOTHEKS,    A^'D    A    SERMON. 

And  let  them  hear  next  ebb  the  blessedest, 
Best  sound  —  the  boat  keels  grating  on  the  sand. 

"  '  I  cannot  pray  with  finer  words  :  I  know 
Nothing ;  I  have  no  learning,  cannot  learn  — 
Too  old,  too  old.     They  say  I  want  for  nought, 
I  have  the  parish  pay ;  but  I  am  dull 
Of  hearing,  and  the  fire  scarce  warms  me  through. 
God  save  me  —  I  have  been  a  sinful  man  — 
And  save  the  lives  of  them  that  still  can  work, 
For  they  are  good  to  me  ;  ay,  good  to  me. 
But,  Lord,  I  am  a  trouble  I  and  I  sit, 
And  I  am  lonesome,  and  the  nights  are  few 
That  any  think  to  come  and  draw  a  chair, 
And  sit  in  my  poor  place  and  talk  awhile. 
Why  should  they  come,  forsooth?     Only  the  wind 
Knocks  at  my  door,  O  long  and  loud  it  knocks, 
The  only  thing  God  made  that  has  a  mind 
To  enter  in.' 

"  Yea,  thus  the  old  man  spake  : 
These  were  the  last  words  of  his  aged  mouth  — 
But  Oxe  did  knock.     One  came  to  sup  with  him, 
That  humble,  weak  old  man ;  knocked  at  his  door 
In  the  rough  pauses  of  the  laboring  wind. 


BROTHEllS,    AND    A    SERMON.  259 

I  tell  you  that  One  knocked  while  it  was  dark, 
Save  where  their  foaming  passion  had  made  white 
Those  livid  seething  billows.     What  He  said 
In  that  poor  place  where  He  did  talk  awhile, 
I  cannot  tell :  but  this  I  am  assured, 
That  when  the  neighbors  came  the  morrow  morn, 
What  time  the  wind  had  bated,  and  the  sun 
Shone  on  the  old  man's  floor,  they  saw  the  smile 
He  passed  away  in,  and  they  said,  '  He  looks 
As  he  had  woke  and  seen  the  face  of  Christ, 
And  with  that  rapturous  smile  held  out  his  arms 
To  come  to  Him ! ' 

"  Can  such  an  one  be  here. 
So  old,  so  weak,  so  ignorant,  so  frail  ? 
The  Lord  be  good  to  thee,  thou  poor  old  man  ; 
It  would  be  hard  with  thee  if  heaven  were  shut 
To  such  as  have  not  learning !     Nay,  nay,  nay, 
He  condescends  to  them  of  low  estate  ; 
To  such  as  are  despised  He  cometh  do^vn, 
Stands  at  the  door  and  knocks. 

"  Yet  bear  with  me. 
I  have  a  message ;  I  have  more  to  say. 


260  BROTHERS,    AND    A   SERMON. 

Shall  sorrow  win  His  pity,  and  not  sin  — 

That  burden  ten  times  heavier  to  be  borne  ? 

What  think  you  ?     Shall  the  virtuous  have  His  care 

Alone  ?  O  virtuous  women,  think  not  scorn, 

For  you  may  lift  your  faces  everywhere  ; 

And  now  that  it  grows  dusk,  and  I  can  see 

None  though  they  front  me  straight,  I  fain  would  tell 

A  certain  thing  to  you.     I  say  to  you; 

And  if  it  doth  concern  you,  as  methinks 

It  doth,  then  surely  it  concerneth  all. 

I  say  that  there  was  once  —  I  say  not  here  — 

I  say  that  there  was  once  a  castaway. 

And  she  was  weeping,  weeping  bitterly ; 

Kneeling,  and  crying  with  a  heart-sick  cry 

That  choked  itself  in  sobs  —  '  O  my  good  name ! 

O  my  good  name  ! '     And  none  did  hear  her  ciy  ! 

Xay  ;  and  it  lightened,  and  the  storm-bolts  fell, 

And  the  rain  splashed  upon  the  roof,  and  still 

She,  storm-tost  as  the  storming  elements  — 

She  cried  Avith  an  exceeding  bitter  cry, 

'  O  my  good  name  ! '     And  then  the  thunder-cloud 

Stooped  low  and  burst  in  darkness  overhead. 

And  rolled,  and  rocked  her  on  her  knees,  and  shook 

The  frail  foundations  of  her  dwelling-place. 


BROTHERS,    .LN'D   A    SERMON.  261 

But  she  —  if  any  neighbor  had  come  in 

(  None  did  )  :  if  any  neighbors  had  come  in 

They  might  have  seen  her  crying  on  her  knees, 

And  sobbing  '  Lost,  lost,  lost ! '  beating  her  breast  — 

Her  breast  for  ever  pricked  with  cruel  thorns, 

The  wounds  whereof  coukl  neither  balm  assuage 

Xor  any  patience  heal  —  beating  her  brow. 

Which  ached,  it  had  been  bent  so  long  to  hide 

From  level  eyes,  whose  meaning  was  contempt. 

"  O  ye  good  Avomen,  it  is  hard  to  leave 
The  paths  of  virtue,  and  return  again. 
What  if  this  sinner  wept,  and  none  of  you 
Comforted  her  ?     And  what  if  she  did  strive 
To  mend,  and  none  of  you  believed  her  strife, 
Xor  looked  upon  her?     Mark,  I  do  not  say, 
Though  it  was  hard,  you  therefore  were  to  blame 
That  she  had  aught  against  you,  though  your  feet 
Kever  drew  near  her  door.     But  I  beseech 
Your  patience.     Once  in  old  Jerusalem 
A  woman  kneeled  at  consecrated  feet. 
Kissed  them,  and  washed  them  with  her  tears. 

What  then  ? 
I  think  that  yet  our  Lord  is  pitiful : 


262  BROTHERS,    AND   A   SERMOX. 

I  think  I  see  tbe  castaway  e'en  now ! 
And  she  is  not  alone  :  the  heavy  rain 
Splashes  without,  and  sullen  thunder  rolls, 
But  she  is  lying  at  the  sacred  feet 
Of  One  transfigured. 

"  And  her  tears  flow  down, 
Down  to  her  lips  —  her  lips  that  kiss  the  print 
Of  nails  ;  and  love  is  like  to  break  her  heart ! 
Love  and  repentance  —  for  it  still  doth  work 
Sore  in  her  soul  to  think,  to  think  that  she, 
Even  she,  did  pierce  the  sacred,  sacred  feet, 
And  bruise  the  thorn-crowned  head. 

"  O  Lord,  our  Lord, 
How  great  is  Thy  compassion  !     Come,  good  Lord, 
For  we  will  open.     Come  this  night,  good  Lord  ; 
Stand  at  the  door  and  knock. 

"And  is  this  all ? — 
Trouble,  old  age  and  simpleness,  and  sin  — 
This  all  ?     It  might  be  all    ome  other  night : 
But  this  night,  if  a  voice  said  '  Give  account 
"Whom  hast  thou  with  thee  ?  '  then  must  I  reply, 
'  Young     manhood     have    I,     beautiful     youth     and 

strength. 
Rich  with  all  treasure  drawn  up  from  the  crypt 


BROTHERS,    .VXD   A    SERMON.  263 

"Where  lies  the  learning  of  the  ancient  world  — 
Brave  with  all  thoughts  that  poets  fling  upon 
The  strand  of  life,  as  driftweed  after  storms : 
Doubtless  familiar  with  Thy  mountain  heads, 
And  the  dread  purity  of  Alpine  snows. 
Doubtless  familiar  with  Thy  works  concealed 
For  ages  from  mankind  —  outlying  worlds. 
And  many  mooned  spheres  —  and  Thy  great  store 
Of  stars,  more  thick  than  mealy  dust  which  here 
Powders  the  pale  leaves  of  Auriculas. 

This  do  I  know,  but.  Lord,  I  know  not  more. 

'Not  more  concerning  them  —  concerning  Thee, 

I  know  Thy  bounty ;  where  Thou  givest  much 

Standing  without,  if  any  call  Thee  in 

Thou  givest  more.'     Speak,  then,  O  rich  and  strong  : 

Open,  O  happy  young,  ere  yet  the  hand 

Of  Him  that  knocks,  wearied  at  last,  forbear ; 

The  patient  foot  its  thankless  quest  refrain. 

The  wounded  heart  for  evermore  withdraw." 

I  have  heard  many  speak,  but  this  one  man  — 
So  anxious  not  to  <to  to  heaven  alone  — 


264  BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMOX. 

This  one  man  I  remember,  and  his  look, 

Till  twilight  overshadowed  him.     He  ceased. 

And  out  in  darkness  with  the  fisher  folk 

We  passed  and  stumbled  over  mounds  of  moss. 

And  heard,  but  did  not  see,  the  passing  beck. 

All,  graceless  heart,  would  that  it  could  regain 

From  the  dim  storehouse  of  sensations  past 

The  impress  full  of  tender  awe,  that  night, 

Which  fell  on  me  !     It  was  as  if  the  Christ 

Had  been  dra^vn  down  from  heaven  to  track  us  home, 

And  any  of  the  footsteps  following  us 

Mio;ht  have  been  His. 


265 


Ji^l 

M^i'f 

^^^1 

r"^!,ii<j^"' 

ffl  ^^^ 

„s^ 

S 

110; 

rS(^^Vii^ 

>•  --s^Ll 

'3^fe.J» 

%M 

1";^^ 
^ 

Is', 

^ 

^ 

A  WEDDING  SONG. 


OME     up     the     broad     river,     the 

Thames,    my  Dane, 

My  Dane  with  the  beautiful  eyes  ! 

Thousands    and    thousands    aAvait 

thee  full   fain, 

And  talk  of  the  wind  and  the  skies. 


Fear  not  from  folk  and  from  country  to  part, 

O,  I  swear  it  is  wisely  done : 
For  (I  said)  I  will  bear  me  by  thee,  sweetheart, 

As  becometh  my  father's  son. 


Great  London  was  shouting  as  I  went  down. 

"  She  is  worthy,"  I  said,  "of  this  ; 
What  shall  I  give  who  have  promised  a  crown  ? 

O,  first  J  will  give  her  a  kiss." 
So  I  kissed  her  and  brought  her,  my  Dane,  my  Dane, 

Through  the  waving  wonderful  crowd  : 
Thousands  and  thousands,  they  shouted  amain, 

Like  mighty  thunders  and  loud. 


266  A   WEDDING   SOXG. 

And  they  said,  "  He  is  young,  the  lad  -we  love, 

The  heir  of  the  Isles  is  young : 
How  we  deem  of  his  mother,  and  one  gone  above, 

Can  neither  be  said  nor  sung. 
He  brings  us  a  pledge  —  he  will  do  his  part 

With  the  best  of  his  race  and  name; "  — 
And  I  will,  for  I  look  to  live,  sweetheart, 

As  may  suit  with  my  mother's  fame. 


267 


THE   FOUK  BRIDGES. 

LOVE    this    grey   old   church,   the 
low,  long  nave, 
The  ivied  chancel  and  the  slender 
spire  ; 
No  less  its  shadow  on  each  heaving 
grave, 

"With  growing  osier  bound,  or  living  briar ; 
I  love  those  yew-tree  trunks,  where  stand  arrayed 
So  many  deep-cut  names  of  youth  and  maid. 


A  simple  custom  this  — I  love  it  well  — 
A  carved  betrothal  and  a  pledge  of  truth ; 

How  many  an  eve,  their  linked  names  to  spell, 
Beneath  the  yew-trees  sat  our  village  youth  ! 

When  work  was  over,  and  the  new-cut  hay 

Sent  wafts  of  balm  from  meadows  where  it  lay. 


268  THE   FOUR   BRIDGES. 

Ah  !  many  an  eve,  while  I  was  vet  a  hoy, 
Some  village  hind  has  beckoned  me  aside, 

And  sought  mine  aid,  with  shy  and  awkward  joy, 
To  carve  the  letters  of  his  rustic  bride. 

And  make  them  clear  to  read  as  graven  stone, 

Deep  in  the  yew-tree's  trunk  beside  his  own. 

For  none  could  carve  like  me,  and  here  they  stand, 
Fathers  and  mothers  of  this  present  race  ; 

And  underscored  by  some  less  practised  hand, 
That  fain  the  story  of  its  line  Avould  trace. 

With  children's  names,  and  number,  and  the  day 

^\Tien  any  called  to  God  have  passed  away. 

I  look  upon  them,  and  I  turn  aside. 

As  oft  when  carving  them  I  did  erewhile ; 

And  there  I  see  those  wooden  bridges  wide 
That  cross  the  marshy  hollow  ;  there  the  stile 

In  reeds  imbedded,  and  the  swelling  down, 

And  the  white  road  toward  the  distant  town. 

But  those  old  bridges  claim  another  look. 

Our  brattling  river  tumbles  through  the  one  ; 
The  second  spans  a  shallow,  weedy  brook ; 


THE   FOUR    BRIDGES.  269 

Beneath  the  others,  and  beneath  the  sun, 
Like  two  long  stilly  pools,  and  on  their  breasts 
Picture  their  wooden  piles,  encased  in  swallows'  nests. 

And  round  about  them  grows  a  fringe  of  reeds, 
And  then  a  floating  crown  of  lily  flowers, 

And  yet  within  small  silver-budded  weeds  ; 
But  each  clear  centre  evermore  embowers 

A  deeper  sky,  where,  stooping,  you  may  see 

The  little  minnows  darting  restlessly. 

My  heart  is  bitter,  lilies,  at  your  sweet; 

Why  did  the  dewdrop  fringe  your  chalices  ? 
"Why  in  your  beauty  are  you  thus  complete, 

You  silver  ships  —  you  floating  palaces  ? 
0  ;  if  need  be,  you  must  allure  man's  eye. 
Yet  wherefore  blossom  here  ?     O  why  ?     O  why  ? 

010!  the  world  is  wide,  you  lily  flowers. 
It  hath  warm  forests,  cleft  by  stilly  pools, 

Where  every  night  bathe  crowds  of  stars ;  and  bowers 
Of  splcery  hang  over.     Sweet  air  cools 

And  shakes  the  lilies  among  those  stars  that  lie : 

^^hy  are  not  ye  content  to  reign  there  ?     Why  ? 


270  THE   FOUR    BRIDGES. 

That  chain  of  bridges,  it  were  hard  to  tell 
How  it  is  linked  with  all  my  early  joy. 

There  was  a  little  foot  that  I  loved  well, 
It  danced  across  them  when  I  was  a  boy ; 

There  was  a  careless  voice  that  used  to  sing ; 

There  was  a  child,  a  sweet  and  happy  thing. 

Oft  through  that  matted  wood  of  oak  and  birch 
She  came  from  yonder  house  upon  the  hill ; 

She  crossed  the  wooden  bridges  to  the  church. 
And  watched,  with  village  girls,  my  boasted  skill 

But  loved  to  watch  the  floating  lihes  best, 

Or  linger,  peering  in  a  swallow''s  nest ; 

Linger  and  linger,  with  her  wistful  eyes 
Drawn  to  the  lily-buds  that  lay  so  white 

And  soft  on  crimson  water ;  for  the  skies 

Would  crimson,  and  tlie  little  cloudlets  bright 

Would  all  be  flung  among  the  flowers  sheer  down, 

To  flush  the  spaces  of  their  clustering  crown. 

Till  the  green  rushes  —  O,  so  glossy  green  — 

The  rushes,  they  would  Avhisper,  rustle,  shake  ; 
And  forth  on  floating  gauze,  no  jewelled  queen 


THE    FOUR    BRIDGES.  271 

So  rich,  the  green-eyed  dragon-flies  would  break, 
And  hover  on  the  flowers  —  aerial  things, 
With  little  rainbows  flickering  on  their  wings. 

Ah  !  my  heart  dear  !  the  polished  pools  lie  still. 
Like  lanes  of  water  reddened  by  the  west. 

Till,  swooping  down  from  yon  o''erhanging  hill. 
The  bold  marsh  harrier  wets  her  tawny  breast ; 

We  scared  her  oft  in  childhood  from  her  prey. 

And  the  old  eager  thoughts  rise  fresh  as  yesterday. 

To  yonder  copse  by  moonlight  I  did  go. 

In  luxury  of  mischief,  half  afraid, 
To  steal  the  great  owfs  brood,  her  downy  snow, 

Her  screaming  imps  to  seize,  the  while  she  preyed 
With  yellow,  cruel  eyes,  whose  radiant  glare. 
Fell  with  their  mother  rage,  I  might  not  dare. 

Panting  I  lay  till  her  great  fanning  wings 

Troubled  the  dreams  of  rock-doves,  slumbering  nigh, 

And  she  and  her  fierce  mate,  like  evil  things. 

Skimmed  the  dusk  fields  ;  then  rising,  with  a  cry 

Of  fear,  joy,  triumph,  darted  on  my  prey. 

And  tore  it  from  the  nest  and  fled  aAvay. 


272  THE    FOUR    BRIDGES. 

But  afterward,  belated  in  the  wood, 

I  saw  lier  moping  on  the  ritied  tree, 
And  my  heart  smote  me  for  her,  while  I  stood 

Awakened  from  my  careless  reverie  ; 
)0  white  she  looked,  with  moonlight  round  her  shed, 
So  motherlike  she  drooped  and  hung  her  head. 

O  that  mine  eyes  would  cheat  me  !     I  behold 
The  godwits  running  by  the  water  edge, 

The  mossy  bridges  mirrored  as  of  old  ; 

The  little  curlews  creeping  from  the  sedge, 

But  not  the  little  foot  so  gayly  light : 

O  that  mine  eyes  would  cheat  me,  that  I  might !  — 

Would  cheat  me  !     I  behold  the  gable  ends  — 
Those  purple  pigeons  clustering  on  the  cote ; 

The  lane  with  maples  overhung,  that  bends 
Toward  her  dwelling  ;  the  dry  grassy  moat, 

Thick  mullions,  diamond  latticed,  mossed  and  grey, 

And  walls  banked  up  Avith  laurel  and  Avith  bay. 

And  up  behind  them  yellow  fields  of  corn. 
And  still  ascending  countless  firry  spires, 
Dry  slopes  of  hills  uncultured,  bare,  forlorn. 


THE    FOUR    BRIDGES.  273 

And  green  in  rocky  clefts  with  whins  and  briars  ; 
Then  rich  cloud  masses  dyed  the  violet's  hue. 
With  orange  sunbeams  dropping  swiftly  through. 

Ay,  I  behold  all  this  full  easily ; 

My  soul  is  jealous  of  my  happier  eyes, 
And  manhood  envies  youth.     Ah,  strange  to  see. 

By  looking  merely,  orange-flooded  skies ; 
Nay,  any  dew-drop  that  may  near  me  shine : 
But  never  more  the  face  of  Eglantine ! 

She  was  my  one  companion,  being  herself 

The  jewel  and  adornment  of  my  days, 
My  life's  completeness.     O,  a  smiling  elf, 

That  I  do  but  disparage  with  my  praise  — 
My  playmate  ;  and  I  loved  her  dearly  and  long, 
And  she  loved  me,  as  the  tender  love  the  strong. 

A.y,  but  she  grew,  till  on  a  time  there  came 
A  sudden  restless  yearning  to  my  heart; 

A.nd  as  we  went  a-nesting,  all  for  shame 
And  shyness,  I  did  hold  my  peace,  and  start; 
ontent  departed,  comfort  shut  me  out, 

^nd  there  was  nothing  left  to  talk  about. 
18 


274  THE    FOUK    BltlDGES. 

She  had  but  sixteen  years,  and  as  for  me, 
Four  added  made  my  life.     This  pretty  bird. 

This  fairy  bird  that  I  had  cherished  —  she, 
Content,  had  sung,  while  I,  contented,  heard. 

The  song  had  ceased ;  the  bird,  with  nature's  art, 

Had  brought  a  thorn  and  set  it  in  my  heart. 

The  restless  birth  of  love  my  soul  opprest, 
I  longed  and  wrestled  for  a  tranquil  day, 

And  warred  with  that  disquiet  in  my  breast 
As  one  who  knows  there  is  a  better  way ; 

But,  turned  against  myself,  I  still  in  vain 

Looked  for  the  ancient  calm  to  come  again. 

My  tired  soul  could  to  itself  confess 

That  she  deserved  a  wiser  love  than  mine  ; 

To  love  more  truly  were  to  love  her  less, 
And  for  this  truth  I  still  awoke  to  pine ; 

I  had  a  dim  belief  that  it  would  be 

A  better  thing  for  her,  a  blessed  tiling  for  me. 

Good  hast  Thou  made  them  —  comforters  right  sweet ; 

Good  hast  Thou  made  the  world,  to  mankind  lent ; 
Good  are  Thy  dropping  clouds  that  feed  the  wheat ; 


THE   FOUR    BRIDGES.  275 

Good  are  Thy  stars  above  the  firmament. 
Take  to  Thee,  take,  Thy  worship.  Thy  renown  ; 
The  good  which  Thou  hast  made  doth  wear  Thy  crown. 

For,  O  my  God,  Thy  creatures  are  so  frail. 

Thy  bountiful  creation  is  so  fair. 
That,  drawn  before  us  like  the  temple  veil. 

It  hides  the  Ploly  Place  from  thought  and  care, 
Giving  man's  eyes  instead  its  sweeping  fold. 
Rich  as  with  cherub  wings  and  apples  wrought  of  gold, 

Purple  and  blue  and  scarlet  —  shimmering  bells 
And  rare  pomegranates  on  its  broidercd  rim. 

Glorious  with  chain  -  and  fret-work  that  the  swell 
Of  incense  shakes  to  music  dreamy  and  dim, 

Till  on  a  day  comes  loss,  that  God  makes  gain. 

And  death  and  darkness  rend  the  veil  in  twain. 

****** 

Ah,  sweetest !  my  beloved  !  each  outAvard  thing 
Recalls  my  youth,  and  is  instinct  with  thee  ; 

Brown  wood-owls  in  the  dusk,  with  noiseless  wing. 
Float  from  yon  hanger  to  their  haunted  tree. 

And  hoot  full  softly.     Listening,  I  regain 

A  flashing  thought   of  thee  with   their   remembered 
strain. 


276  THE   FOUR   BELDGES. 

I  Avill  not  pine  —  it  is  the  careless  brook, 

These  amber  sunbeams  slanting  down  the  vale ; 

It  is  the  long  tree-shadows,  with  their  look 
Of  natural  peace,  that  make  my  heart  to  fail : 

The  peace  of  nature  —  Xo,  I  will  not  pine  — 

But  O  the  contrast  'twixt  her  face  and  mine ! 

And  still  I  changed  —  I  was  a  boy  no  more ; 

My  heart  was  large  enough  to  hold  my  kind, 
And  all  the  world.     As  hath  been  oft  before 

With  youth,  I  sought,  but  I  could  never  find 
"Work  hard  enough  to  quiet  my  self-strife, 
And  use  the  strength  of  action-craving  life. 

She,  too,  was  changed  :  her  bountiful  sweet  eyes 
Looked  out  full  lovingly  on  all  the  world. 

O  tender  as  the  deeps  in  yonder  skies 

Their  beaming  !  but  her  rosebud  lips  were  curled 

With  the  soft  dimple  of  a  musing  smile, 

Which  kept  my  gaze,  but  held  me  mute  the  while. 

A  cast  of  bees,  a  slowly  moving  wain. 

The  scent  of  bean-flowers  wafted  up  a  dell. 
Blue  pigeons  wheeling  over  fields  of  grain, 


THE   FOUR   BRIDGES.  277 

Or  bleat  of  folded  lamb,  would  please  Ler  well ; 
Or  cooing  of  the  early  coted  dove  ;  — 
She  sauntering  mused  of  these  ;  I,  following,  mused  of 
love. 

With  her  two  lips,  that  one  the  other  pressed 

So  poutingly  with  such  a  trancpiil  air, 
With  her  two  eyes,  that  on  my  OAvn  would  rest 

So  dream-like,  she  denied  my  silent  prayer, 
Fronted  unuttered  words  and  said  them  nay. 
And  smiled  down  love  till  it  had  nought  to  say. 

The  words  that  through  mine  eyes  would  clearly  shine 
Hovered  and  hovered  on  my  lips  in  vain  ; 

If  after  pause  I  said  but  "  Eglantine," 
She  raised  to  me  her  quiet  eyelids  twain. 

And  looked  me  this  reply  —  look  calm,  yet  bland  — 

**I  shall  not  know,  I  will  not  understand." 

Yet  she  did  know  my  story  —  knew  my  life 

Was  wrought  to  hers  with  bindings  many  and  strong  : 

That  I,  like  Israel,  served  for  a  wife. 

And  for  the  love  I  bare  her  thought  not  long. 

But  only  a  few  days,  full  quickly  told, 

My  seven  years'  service  strict  as  his  of  old. 


278  THE   FOUR   BRIDGES. 

I  must  be  brief :  the  twilight  shadows  grow, ' 
And  steal  the  rose-bloom  genial  summer  sheds. 

And  scented  wafts  of  wind  that  come  and  go 
Have  lifted  dew  from  honied  clover  heads  ; 

The  seven  stars  shine  out  above  the  mill, 

The  dark  delightsome  woods  lie  veiled  and  still. 

Hush  !  hush  !  the  nightingale  begins  to  sing, 
And  stops,  as  ill-contented  with  her  note  ; 
Then  breaks  from  out  the  bush  with  hurried  wing, 
•Restless  and  passionate.     She  tunes  her  throat. 
Laments  awhile  in  wavering  trills,  and  then 
Floods  with  a  stream  of  sweetness  all  the  glen. 

The  seven  stars  upon  the  nearest  pool 

Lie  trembling  down  betwixt  the  lily  leaves. 

And  move  like  glowworms  ;  wafting  breezes  cool 
Come  down  along  the  water,  and  it  heaves 

And  bubbles  in  the  sedge  ;  while  deep  and  wide 

The  dim  night  settles  on  the  country  side. 

I  know  this  scene  by  heart.     O  I  once  before 

I  saw  the  seven  stars  float  to  and  fro, 
And  stayed  my  hurried  footsteps  by  the  shore 


THE    FOUR    BRIDGES.  279 

To  mark  the  starrj-  picture  spread  below : 
Its  silence  made  the  tumult  in  my  breast 
More  audible  ;  its  peace  revealed  my  own  unrest. 

I  paused,  then  hurried  on  ;  my  heart  beat  quick  ; 

I  crossed  the  bridges,  reached  the  steep  ascent. 
And  climbed  through  matted  fern  and  hazels  thick ; 

Then  darkling  through  the  close  green  maples  went 
And  saw  —  there  felt  love's  keenest  pangs  begin  — 
An  oriel  window  lighted  from  within  — 

I  saw  —  and  felt  that  they  were  scarcely  cares 
Which  I  had  known  before  ;  I  drew  more  near. 

And  O  !  methought  how  sore  it  frets  and  wears 
The  soul  to  part  with  that  it  holds  so  dear ; 

'Tis  hard  two  woven  tendrils  to  untwine, 

And  I  was  come  to  part  with  Eglantine. 

For  life  was  bitter  through  those  words  repressed. 
And  youth  was  burdened  with  unspoken  vows  ; 

Love  unrequited  brooded  in  my  breast, 

And  shrank,  at  glance,  from  the  beloved  brows  : 

And  three  long  months,  heart-sick,  my  foot  withdrawn, 

I  had  not  sought  her  side  by  rivulet,  copse,  or  lawn  — 


280  THE   FOUR  BRIDGES. 

'Not  sought  her  side,  yet  busj  thought  no  less 
Still  followed  in  her  wake,  though  far  behind ; 

And  I,  being  parted  from  her  loveliness, 
Looked  at  the  picture  of  her  in  my  mind : 

I  lived  alone,  I  walked  with  soul  opprest, 

And  ever  sighed  for  her,  and  sighed  for  rest. 

Then  I  had  risen  to  struggle  with  my  heart, 

And  said —  "  O  heart !  the  world  is  fresh  and  fair 

And  I  am  young ;  but  this  thy  restless  smart 
Changes  to  bitterness  the  morning  air : 

I  Avill,  I  must,  tliese  weary  fetters  break  — 

I  will  be  free,  if  only  for  her  sake. 

*'  O  let  me  trouble  her  no  more  Avith  sighs  ! 

Heart-healing  comes  by  distance,  and  with  time; 
Then  let  me  wander,  and  enrich  mine  eyes 

With  the  green  forests  of  a  softer  clime, 
Or  list  by  night  at  sea  the  wind's  low  stave 
And  long  monotonous  rockings  of  the  wave. 

"Through  open  solitudes,  unbounded  meads. 

Where,  wading  on  breast-high  in  yellow  bloom. 
Untamed  of  man,  the  shy  white  llama  feeds  — 


THE    FOUR    BRIDGES.  281 

There  would  I  journey  and  forget  my  doom ; 
Or  far,  O  far  as  sunrise  I  would  see 
The  level  prairie  stretch  away  from  me  ! 

"  Or  I  would  sail  upon  the  tropic  seas, 
Where  fathom  long  the  blood-red  dulses  grow, 

Droop  from  the  rock  and  waver  in  the  breeze. 
Lashing  the  tide  to  foam ;  Avhile  calm  below 

The  muddy  mandrakes  throng  those  waters  warm. 

And   purple,   gold,    and   green,    the   living   blossoms 
swarm.'' 

So  of  my  father  I  did  win  consent, 

With  importunities  repeated  long, 
To  make  that  duty  which  had  been  my  bent. 

To  dig  with  strangers  alien  tombs  among. 
And  bound  to  them  through  desert  leagues  to  pace, 
Or  track  up  rivers  to  their  starting-place. 

For  this  I  had  done  battle  and  had  won, 

But  not  alone  to  tread  Arabian  sands. 
Measure  the  shadows  of  a  southern  sun, 

Or  dig  out  gods  in  the  old  Egyptian  lands ; 
But  for  the  dream  wherewith  I  thought  to  cope  — 
The  grief  of  love  unmated  with  love's  hope. 


282  THE   FOUR   BRIDGES. 

And  now  I  would  set  reason  in  array, 

Methought,  and  fight  for  freedom  manfully, 

Till  by  long  absence  there  would  come  a  day 
When  this  my  love  would  not  be  pain  to  me: 

But  if  I  knew  my  rosebud  fair  and  blest 

I  should  not  pine  to  wear  it  on  my  breast. 

The  days  fled  on  ;  another  week  should  fling 
A  foreign  shadow  on  my  lengthening  way ; 

Another  Aveek,  yet  nearness  did  not  bring 
A  braver  heart  that  hard  flirewell  to  say. 

I  let  the  last  day  wane,  the  dusk  begin, 

Ere  I  had  sought  that  window  lighted  from  within. 

Sinking  and  sinking,  O  my  heart !  my  heart ! 

Will  absence  heal  thee  Avhom  its  shade  doth  rend  ? 
I  reached  the  little  gate,  and  soft  within 

The  oriel  fell  her  shadow.     She  did  lend 
Her  loveliness  to  mc,  and  let  me  share 
The  listless  sweetness  of  those  features  fair. 

Among  thick  laurels  in  the  gathering  gloom. 

Heavy  for  this  our  parting,  I  did  stand ; 
Beside  her  mother  in  the  lio;hted  room, 


THE   FOUR   BRIDGES.  283 

She  sitting  leaned  her  cheek  upon  her  hand ; 
And  as  she  read,  her  sweet  voice  floating  through 
The  open  casement  seemed  to  mourn  me  an  adieu. 

Youth  !  youth  !  how  buoyant  are  thy  hopes  !  they  turn, 
Like  marigolds,  toward  the  sunny  side. 

My  hopes  were  buried  in  a  funeral  urn. 

And  they  sprung  up  like  plants  and  spread  them  wide  ; 

Though  I  had  schooled  and  reasoned  them  away, 

They  gathered  smiling  near  and  prayed  a  holida}-. 

Ah,  sweetest  voice  !  how  pensive  were  its  tones, 
And  how  regretful  its  unconscious  pause  ! 

"Is  it  for  me  her  heart  this  sadness  owns, 
And  is  our  parting  of  to-night  the  cause  ? 

Ah,  would  it  might  be  so  !  '^  I  thought,  and  stood 

Listening  entranced  among  the  underwood. 

I  thought  it  would  be  something  worth  the  pain 
Of  parting,  to  look  once  in  those  deep  eyes. 

And  take  from  them  an  answering  look  again  : 

"  When  eastern  palms,"  I  thought,  "  about  me  rise. 

If  I  might  carve  our  names  upon  the  rind. 

Betrothed,  I  would  not  mourn,  though  leaving  thee 
behind.*' 


284:  THE    FOUR    BRIDGES. 

I  can  be  patient,  faithful,  and  most  fond 
To  unacknowledged  love  ;  I  can  be  true 

To  this  sweet  thraldom,  this  unequal  bond, 
This  yoke  of  mine  that  reaches  not  to  you : 

O,  how  much  more  could  costly  parting  buy  — 

If  not  a  pledge,  one  kiss,  or,  failing  that,  a  sigh ! 

I  listened,  and  she  ceased  to  read ;  she  turned 
Her  face  toward  the  laurels  where  I  stood : 

Her  mother  spoke  —  O  wonder  !  hardly  learned ; 
She  said,  "There  is  a  rustling  in  the  wood; 

Ah,  child  !  if  one  draw  near  to  bid  farewell, 

Let  not  thine  eyes  an  unsought  secret  tell. 

*'  My  daughter,  there  is  nothing  held  so  dear 

As  love,  if  only  it  be  hard  to  win. 
The  roses  that  in  yonder  hedge  appear 

Outdo  our  garden-buds  which  bloom  within  ; 
But  since  the  hand  may  pluck  them  every  day, 
Unmarked  they  bud,  bloom,  drop,  and  drift  away. 

"  My  daughter,  my  beloved,  be  not  you 

Like  those  same  roses."'     O  bewildering  word  I 
My  heart  stood  still,  a  mist  obscured  mv  view : 


THE    FOUR    BREDGES.  285 

It  cleared;  still  silence.     No  denial  stirred 
The  lips  beloved ;  but  straight,  as  one  opprest, 
She,  kneeling,   dropped  her  face   upon  her  mother's 
breast. 

This  said,  "My  daughter,  sorrow  comes  to  all; 

Our  life  is  checked  with  shadows  manifold  : 
But  woman  has  this  more  —  she  may  not  call 

Her  sorrow  by  its  name.     Yet  love  not  told, 
And  only  born  of  absence  and  by  thought. 
With  thought  and  absence  may  return  to  nought." 

And  my  beloved  lifted  up  her  face. 

And  moved  her  lips  as  if  about  to  speak  ; 

She  dropped  her  lashes  with  a  girlish  grace, 
And  the  rich  damask  mantled  in  her  cheek : 

I  stood  awaiting  till  she  should  deny 

Her  love,  or  with  sweet  laughter  put  it  by. 

But,  closer  nestling  to  her  mother's  heart. 

She,  blushing,  said  no  word  to  break  my  trance, 

For  I  Avas  breathless  ;  and,  with  lips  apart. 
Felt  my  breast  pant  and  all  my  pulses  dance, 

And  strove  to  move,  but  could  not  for  the  weight 

Of  unbelieving  joy,  so  sudden  and  so  great, 


286  THE    FOUR   BRIDGES. 

Because  slie  loyed  me.     With  a  mighty  sigh 
Breaking  away,  I  left  her  on  her  knees, 

And  blest  the  laurel  bower,  the  darkened  sky. 
The  sultry  night  of  August.     Through  the  trees. 

Giddy  with  gladness,  to  the  porch  I  went. 

And  hardly  found  the  way  for  joyful  wonderment. 

Yet,  when  I  entered,  saw  her  mother  sit 

With  both  hands  cherishing  the  graceful  head. 

Smoothing  the  clustered  hair,  and  parting  it 
From  the  fair  brow ;  she,  rising,  only  said, 

In  the  accustomed  tone,  the  accustomed  word. 

The  careless  greeting  that  I  always  heard ; 

And  she  resumed  her  merry,  mocking  smile, 

Though  tear-drops  on  the  glistening  lashes  hung. 

O  woman  !  thou  wert  fashioned  to  beguile  : 
So  have  all  sages  said,  all  poets  sung. 

She  spoke  of  favoring  winds  and  waiting  ships, 

With  smiles  of  gratulation  on  her  lips  ! 

And  then  she  looked  and  faltered  :   I  had  grown 

So  suddenly  in  life  and  soul  a  man  : 
She  moved  her  lips,  but  could  not  find  a  tone 


THE    FOUR   BlUDGES.  287 

To  set  her  mocking  music  to  ;  began 
One  struggle  for  dominion,  raised  lier  eyes, 
And  straight  -withdrew  them,  bashful  through  surprise. 

The  color  over  cheek  and  bosom  flushed ; 

I  might  have  heard  the  beating  of  her  heart. 
But  that  mine  own  beat  louder ;  when  she  blushed, 

The  hand  within  mine  own  I  felt  to  start, 
But  would  not  change  my  pitiless  decree 
To  strive  with  her  for  might  and  mastery. 

She  looked  again,  as  one  that,  half  afraid, 
"Would  fain  be  certain  of  a  doubtful  thing ; 

Or  one  beseeching  "  Do  not  me  upbraid  !  " 
And  then  she  trembled  like  the  fluttering 

Of  timid  little  birds,  and  silent  stood, 

Xo  smile  wherewith  to  mock  my  hardihood. 

She  turned,  and  to  an  open  casement  moved 
With  girlish  shyness,  mute  beneath  my  gaze. 

And  I  on  downcast  lashes  unreproved 

Could  look  as  long  as  pleased  me  ;  while,  the  rays 

Of  moonlight  round  her,  she  her  fair  head  bent, 

In  modest  silence  to  niv  words  attent. 


288  TilE    FOUR    BRIDGES. 

How  f\ist  the  giddy  whirling  moments  flew ! 

The  moon  had  set ;  I  heard  the  midnight  chime  ; 
Hope  is  more  brave  than  fear,  and  joy  than  dread. 

And  I  coukl  wait  unmoved  the  parting  time. 
It  came  ;  for  by  a  sudden  impulse  drawn, 
She,  risen,  stepped  out  upon  the  dusky  lawn. 

A  little  waxen  taper  in  her  hand, 

Her  feet  upon  the  dry  and  dewless  grass, 

She  looked  like  one  of  the  celestial  band. 
Only  that  on  her  cheeks  did  dawn  and  pass 

Most  human  blushes  ;  while,  the  soft  light  thrown 

On  vesture  pure   and  white,    she   seemed  yet    fairer 
grown. 

Her  mother,  looking  out  toward  her,  sighed. 
Then  gave  her  hand  in  token  of  farewell, 

And  with  her  warning  eyes,  that  seemed  to  chide, 
Scarce  suffered  that  I  sought  her  child  to  tell 

The  story  of  my  life,  whose  every  line 

No  other  burden  bore  than  — Eglantine. 

Black  thunder-clouds  were  rising  up  behind. 

The  waxen  taper  burned  full  steadily  ; 
It  seemed  as  if  dark  midnight  had  a  mind 


THE   FOUR   BRIDGES.  289 

To  hear  what  lovers  say,  and  her  decree 
Had  passed  for  silence,  Avhile  she,  dropped  to  ground 
With  raiment  floating  wide,  drank  in  the  sound. 

0  happiness  !  thou  dost  not  leave  a  trace 
So  well  defined  as  sorrow.     Amber  light, 

Shed  like  a  glory  on  her  angel  face, 

I  can  remember  fully,  and  the  sight 
Of  her  fair  forehead  and  her  shining  eyes. 
And  lips  that  smiled  in  sweet  and  girlish  wise. 

1  can  remember  how  the  taper  played 

Over  her  small  hands  and  her  vesture  white ; 
How  it  struck  up  into  the  trees,  and  laid 

Upon  their  under  leaves  unwonted  light ; 
And  when  she  held  it  low,  how  far  it  spread 
O'er  velvet  pansies  slumbering  on  their  bed. 

I  can  rcmem1)er  that  we  spoke  full  low. 
That  neither  doubted  of  the  other's  truth ; 

And  that  with  footsteps  slower  and  more  slow, 
Hands  folded  close  for  love,  eyes  wet  for  ruth : 

B'^n('ath  the  trees,  by  that  clear  taper's  flame, 

AVe  wander  till  the  gate  of  parting  came. 
19 


290  THE  FOUR   BRIDGES. 

But  I  forget  the  parting  words  she  said, 
So  much  they  thrilled  the  all-attentive  soul ; 

For  one  short  moment  human  heart  and  head 
May  bear  such  bliss  —  its  present  is  the  whole  : 

I  had  that  present,  till  in  whispers  fell 

With  parting  gesture  her  subdued  farewell. 

Farewell !  she  said,  in  act  to  turn  away. 
But  stood  a  moment  still  to  dry  her  tears. 

And  suffered  my  enfolding  arm  to  stay 
The  time  of  her  departure.     O  ye  years 

That  intervene  betwixt  that  day  and  this  ! 

You  all  received  your  hue  from  that  keen  pain  and  bliss. 

O  mingled  pain  and  bliss  !     O  pain  to  break 
At  once  from  happiness  so  lately  found, 

And  four  long  years  to  feel  for  her  sweet  sake 
The  incompleteness  of  all  sight  and  sound ! 

But  bliss  to  cross  once  more  the  foaming  brine  — 

0  bliss  to  come  again  and  make  her  mine ! 

1  cannot  —  O,  I  cannot  more  recall! 

But  I  will  soothe  my  troubled  thoughts  to  rest 
With  musing  over  journey ings  wide,  and  all 


THE   FOUR   BRIDGES.  291 

Observance  of  this  active-humored  west, 
And  swarming  cities  steeped  in  eastern  day, 
"With  swarthy  tribes  in  gold  and  striped  array. 

I  turn  from  these,  and  straight  there  will  succeed 
(Shifting  and  changing  at  the  restless  will), 

Imbedded  in  some  deep  Circassian  mead, 

White  wagon-tilts,  and  flocks  that  eat  their  fill 

Unseen  above,  while  comely  shepherds  pass. 

And  scarcely  show  their  heads  above  the  grass. 

—  The  red  Sahara  in  an  angry  glow, 

With  amber  fogs,  across  its  hollows  trailed 

Long  strings  of  camels,  gloomy-eyed  and  slow. 
And  women  on  their  necks,  from  gazers  veiled, 

And  sun-swart  guides  who  toil  across  the  sand 

To  groves  of  date-trees  on  the  watered  land. 

Again  —  the  brown  sails  of  an  Arab  boat. 

Flapping  by  night  upon  a  glassy  sea, 
Y\^hereon  the  moon  and  planets  seem  to  float. 

More  bright  of  hue  than  they  were  wont  to  be. 
While  shooting-stars  rain  down  Avith  crackling  sound, 
And,  thick  as  swarming  locusts,  drop  to  ground. 


292  THE   FOUR   BRIDGES. 

Or  far  into  the  heat  among  the  sands 

The  gembok  nations,  snuffing  up  the  wind, 

Drawn  by  the  scent  of  water  —  and  the  bands 
Of  tawny-bearded  lions  pacing,  blind 

AVith  the  sun-dazzle  in  their  midst,  opprest 

"With  prey,  and  spiritless  for  lack  of  rest ! 

What  more  ?     Old  Lebanon,  the  frosty-browed, 
Setting  his  feet  among  oil-olive  trees. 

Heaving  his  bare  brown  shoulder  through  a  cloud ; 
And  after,  grassy  Carmel,  purple  seas, 

Flattering  his  dreams  and  echoing  in  his  rocks, 

Soft  as  the  bleating  of  his  thousand  flocks. 

Enough  :  how  vain  this  thinking  to  beguile, 
With  recollected  scenes,  an  aching  breast ! 

Did  not  I,  journeying,  muse  on  her  the  while  ? 
Ah,  yes  I  for  every  landscape  comes  impressed  — 

Ay,  written  on,  as  by  an  iron  pen  — 

With  the  same  thought  I  nursed  about  her  then. 

Therefore  let  memory  turn  again  to  home ; 

Feel,  as  of  old,  the  joy  of  drawing  near ; 
Watch  the  green  breakers  and  the  wind-tossed  foam. 


THE    FOUR   BRIDGES.  2i)'d 

And  see  the  land-fog  break,  dissolve,  and  clear ; 
Then  think  a  skylark's  voice  far  sweeter  sound 
Than  ever  thrilled  but  over  English  ground ; 

And  walk,  glad,  even  to  tears,  among  the  wheat, 
Xot  doubting  this  to  be  the  first  of  lands ; 

And,  while  in  foreign  words  this  murmuring,  meet 
Some  little  village  schoolgirls  (with  their  hands 

Full  of  forget-me-nots),  who  greeting  me, 

I  count  their  English  talk  delightsome  melody ; 

And  seat  me  on  a  bank,  and  draw  them  near. 
That  I  may  feast  myself  with  hearing  it. 

Till  shortly  they  forget  their  bashful  fear. 

Push  back  their  flaxen  curls,  and  round  me  sit  — 

Tell  me  their  names,  their  daily  tasks,  and  show 

Where  wild  wood  strawberries  in  the  copses  grow. 

So  passed  the  day  in  this  delightsome  land : 

My  heart  was  thankful  for  the  English  tongue  — 

For  English  sky  with  feathery  cloudlets  spanned  — 
For  English  hedge  with  glistering  dewdrops  hung. 

I  journeyed,  and  at  glowing  eventide 

Stopped  at  a  rustic  inn  by  the  wayside. 


294  THE   FOUR   BRIDGES. 

That  night  I  slumbered  sweetly,  being  riglit  glad 
To  miss  the  flapping  of  the  shrouds  ;  but  lo  ! 

A  quiet  dream  of  beings  twain  I  had, 
Behind  the  curtain  talking  soft  and  low : 

Methought  I  did  not  heed  their  utterance  fine, 

Till  one  of  them  said  softly,  "Eglantine." 

I  started  up  awake,  'twas  silence  all : 

My  own  fond  heart  had  shaped  that  utterance  clear  ; 
And  ".  Ah  !  "  methought,  "  how  sweetly  did  it  fall, 

Though  but  in  dream,  uj^on  the  listening  ear  ! 
How  sweet  from  other  lips  the  name  well  known  — 
That  name,  so  many  a  year  heard  only  from  mine  own  ' 

I  thought  awhile,  then  slumber  came  to  me, 

And  tangled  all  my  fancy  in  her  maze. 
And  I  was  drifting  on  a  raft  at  sea, 

The  near  all  ocean,  and  the  far  all  haze  ; 
Through  the  white  polished  water  sharks  did  glide. 
And  up  in  heaven  I  saw  no  stars  to  guide. 

*'  Have  mercy,  God  ! ''  but  lo  !  my  raft  uprose  ; 
Drip,  drip,  I  heard  the  water  splash  from  it ; 
My  raft  had  wings,  and  as  the  petrel  goes, 


THE   FOUR   BRIDGES.  295 

It  skimmed  the  sea,  then  brooding  seemed  to  sit 
The  milk-white  mirror,  till,  with  sudden  spring, 
It  flew  straight  upward  like  a  living  thing. 

But  strange  !  —  I  went  not  also  in  that  flight, 
For  I  was  entering  at  a  cavern's  mouth ; 

Trees  grew  within,  and  screaming  birds  of  night 
Sat  on  them,  hiding  from  the  torrid  south. 

On,  on  I  went,  while  gleaming  in  the  dark 

Those  trees  with  blanched  leaves  stood  pale  and  stark. 

The  trees  had  flower-buds,  nourished  in  deep  night. 

And  suddenly,  as  I  went  farther  in, 
They  opened,  and  they  shot  out  lambent  light ; 

Then  all  at  once  arose  a  railing  din 
That  frighted  me  :   "  It  is  the  ghosts,"  I  said, 
*'  And  they  are  railing  for  their  darkness  fled. 

*'  I  hope  they  will  not  look  me  in  the  face ; 

It  frighteth  me  to  hear  their  laughter  loud ; " 
I  saw  them  troop  before  with  jaunty  pace. 

And  one  would  shake  off  dust  that  soiled  her  shroud : 
But  now,  O  joy  unhoped  !  to  calm  my  dread. 
Some  moonliffht  filtered  through  a  cleft  o'erhead. 


296  THE   FOUR    BRIDGES. 

I  climbed  ttie  lofty  trees — the  blanched  trees  — 
The  cleft  was  Avide  enouo-h  to  let  me  through ; 

I  clambered  out  and  felt  the  balmy  breeze, 

And  stepped  on  churchyard  grasses  wet  with  dew. 

0  happy  chance  !  O  fortune  to  admire  ! 

1  stood  beside  my  own  loyed  village  spire. 

And  as  I  gazed  upon  the  yew-tree's  trunk, 
Lo,  far  off"  music  —  music  in  the  night ! 

So  sweet  and  tender  as  it  swelled  and  sunk ; 
It  charmed  me  till  I  wept  with  keen  delight. 

And  in  my  dream,  methought  as  it  drew  near 

The  yery  clouds  in  heaven  stooped  low  to  hear. 

Beat  high,  beat  low,  wihl  heart  so  deeply  stirred. 
For  high  as  heaven  runs  up  the  piercing  strain ; 

The  restless  music  fluttering  like  a  bird 

Bemoaned  herself,  and  dropped  to  earth  again, 

Heaping  up  sweetness  till  I  was  afraid 

That  I  should  die  of  grief  when  it  did  fade. 

And  it  DID  fade  ;  but  while  with  eager  ear 

I  drank  its  last  long  echo  dying  away, 
I  was  aware  of  footsteps  that  drew  near, 


THE   FOUR    BRIDGES.  297 

And  round  the  ivied  chancel  seemed  to  stray : 

0  soft  above  the  hallowed  place  they  trod  — 
Soft  as  the  fall  of  foot  that  is  not  shod ! 

1  turned  —  'twas  even  so  —  yes,  Eglantine! 

For  at  the  first  I  had  divined  the  same ; 
I  saw  the  moon  on  her  shut  eyelids  shine, 

And  said  "  She  is  asleep  : ''  still  on  she  came ; 
Then,  on  her  dimpled  feet,  I  saw  it  gleam. 
And  thought  —  "  I  know  that  this  is  but  a  dream." 

My  darling  !  O  my  darling  !  not  the  less 
My  dream  went  on  because  I  knew  it  such ; 

She  came  towards  me  in  her  loveliness  — 

A  thing  too  pure,  methought,  for  mortal  touch ; 

The  rippling  gold  did  on  her  bosom  meet, 

The  long  white  robe  descended  to  her  feet. 

The  fringed  lids  dropped  low,  as  sleep-oppressed ; 

Her  dreamy  smile  was  very  fair  to  see, 
And  her  two  hands  were  folded  to  her  breast, 

With  somewhat  held  between  them  heedfully. 
O  fast  asleep  !  and  yet  methought  she  knew 
And  felt  my  nearness  those  shut  eyelids  through. 


298  THE    FOUR   BRIDGES. 

She  sighed :  my  tears  ran  down  for  tenderness  — 
"  And  have  I  draAvn  thee  to  me  in  my  sleep  ? 

Is  it  for  me  thou  wanderest  shelterless, 
Wetting  thy  steps  in  dewy  grasses  deep  ? 

0  if  this  be  !  "  I  said  —  "yet  speak  to  me  ; 

1  blame  my  very  dream  for  cruelty." 

Then  from  her  stainless  bosom  she  did  take 
Two  beauteous  lily  flowers  that  lay  therein. 

And  with  slow-moving  lips  a  gesture  make, 
As  one  that  some  forgotten  words  doth  win  : 

*'  They  floated  on  the  pool,"  methought  she  said. 

And  water  trickled  from  each  lily's  head. 

It  dropped  upon  her  feet  —  I  saw  it  gleam 

Along  the  ripples  of  her  yellow  hair. 
And  stood  apart,  for  only  in  a  dream 

She  would  have  come,  methought,  to  meet  me  there. 
She  spoke  again  —  ' '  Ah  fair  !  ah  fresh  they  shine  ! 
And  there  are  many  left,  and  these  are  mine." 

I  answered  her  with  flattering  accents  meet  — 

"  Love,  they  are  whitest  lilies  e'er  were  blown." 
*'  And  savest  thou  so  ?  "  she  sighed  in  murmurs  sweet ; 


THE   FOUR    BRIDGES.  299 

"  I  have  nought  else  to  give  the«  now,  mine  own ! 
For  it  is  night.     Then  take  them,  love  ! "'  said  she  : 
"  They  have  been  costly  flowers  to  thee  —  and  me." 

While  thus  she  said  I  took  them  from  her  hand. 
And,  overcome  with  love  and  nearness,  woke  ; 

And  overcome  with  ruth  that  she  should  stand 
Barefooted  on  the  grass  ;  that,  when  she  spoke. 

Her  mystic  words  should  take  so  sweet  a  tone. 

And  of  all  names  her  lips  should  choose  "  My  own." 

I  rose,  I  journeyed,  neared  my  home,  and  soon 
Beheld  the  spire  peer  out  above  the  hill :     . 

It  was  a  sunny  harvest  afternoon. 

When  by  the  churchyard  wicket,  standing  still, 

I  cast  my  eager  eyes  abroad  to  know 

If  change  had  touched  the  scenes  of  long  ago. 

I  looked  across  the  hollow  ;  sunbeams  shone 
Upon  the  old  house  M'ith  the  gable  ends  : 
Save  that  the  laurel-trees  are  taller  grown, 
No  change,"  methought,  "to  its  grey  wall  extends. 

What  clear  bright  beams  on  yonder  lattice  shine  ! 

There  did  I  sometime  talk  with  Eirlantine." 


300  THE   FOUR   BRIDGES. 

There  standing  with  my  very  goal  in  sight, 

Over  my  haste  did  sudden  quiet  steal ; 
I  thought  to  dally  -with  my  own  delight, 

Xor  rush  on  headlong  to  my  garnered  weal, 
But  taste  the  sweetness  of  a  short  delay, 
And  for  a  little  moment  hold  the  bliss  at  bay. 

The  church  was  open  ;  it  perchance  might  be 
That  there  to  offer  thanks  I  might  essay. 

Or  rather,  as  I  think,  tliat  I  might  see 

The  place  where  Eglantine  was  wont  to  pray. 

But  so  it  was  ;  I  crossed  that  portal  wide, 

And  felt  my  riot  joy  to  calm  subside. 

The  low  depending  curtains,  gently  swa3'ed, 
Cast  over  arch  and  roof  a  crimson  glow ; 

But,  nevertheless,  all  silence  and  all  shade 
It  seemed,  save  only  for  the  rippling  flow 

Of  their  long  foldings,  when  the  sunset  air 

Sighed  through  the  casements  of  the  house  of  prayer. 

I  found  her  place,  the  ancient  oaken  stall, 

Where  in  her  childhood  I  had  seen  her  sit, 
Most  saint-like  and  most  tranquil  there  of  all, 


THE   FOLTw   BRIDGES.  301 

Folding  her  baiids,  as  if  a  dreaming  fit  — 
A  heavenly  vision  had  before  her  strayed 
Of  the  Eternal  Child  in  lowly  manger  laid. 

I  saw  her  prayer-book  laid  upon  the  seat, 
And  took  it  in  my  hand,  and  felt  more  near 

In  fancy  to  her,  finding  it  most  sweet 

To  think  how  very  oft,  low  kneeling  there, 

In  her  devout  thoughts  she  had  let  me  share, 

And  set  my  graceless  name  in  her  pure  prayer. 

My  eyes  were  dazzled  with  delightful  tears  — 
In  sooth  they  were  the  last  I  ever  shed ; 

For  with  them  fell  the  cherished  dreams  of  years. 
I  looked,  and  on  the  wall  above  my  head. 

Over  her  seat,  there  was  a  tablet  placed, 

With  one  word  only  on  the  marble  traced.  — 

Ah,  vrell !  I  would  not  overstate  that  woe. 
For  I  have  had  some  blessings,  little  care; 

But  since  the  falling  of  that  heavy  blow, 

Grod's  earth  has  never  seemed  to  me  so  fair ; 

Xor  any  of  His  creatures  so  divine. 

Nor  sleep  so  sweet ;  —  the  Avord  was  —  Eglantine. 


302 


A  MOTHER   SHOWmG   THE    PORTRAIT  OF 
HER  CHH^D. 

(F.    M.   L.) 

IVIXG  CHH^D  or  pictured  cherub 
Xe'er  o''ermatched  its  babv  grace ; 
And  the  mother,  moving  nearer, 
Looked  it  calmly  in  the  face  ; 
Then  with  slight  and  quiet  gesture, 
And    with     lijDS     that     scarcely 
smiled. 
Said  —  "  A  Portrait  of  my  daughter 
When  she  was  a  child.'' 


Easy  thought  was  hers  to  fathom, 
Xothing  hard  her  glance  to  read, 

For  it  seemed  to  say,  "  Xo  praises 
For  this  little  child  I  need : 


A  MOTHER  SHOWING  HER  CHILD  S  PORTRAIT.     303 

If  you  see,  I  see  far  better, 

And  I  will  not  feign  to  care 
For  a  stranger's  prompt  assurance 
That  the  face  is  fair." 


Softly  clasped  and  half  extended, 
She  her  dimpled  hands  doth  lay : 

So  they  doubtless  placed  them,  saying  — 
"Little  one,  you  must  not  play." 

And  while  yet  his  work  was  growing, 
This  the  painter's  hand  hath  shown, 

That  the  little  heart  was  making 
Pictures  of  its  own. 


Is  it  warm  in  that  green  valley, 

Yale  of  childhood,  where  you  dwell? 

Is  it  calm  in  that  green  valley. 

Round  whose  bournes  such  great  hills  swell  ? 

Are  there  giants  in  the  valley  — 
Giants  leaving  footprints  yet  ? 

Are  there  angels  in  the  valley  ? 
Tell  me  —  I  forget. 


304     A  MOTHER  SHOAVIXG  HER  CHILD'S  PORTRAIT. 

Answer,  answer,  for  the  lilies, 

Little  one,  o'ertop  you  much, 
And  the  mealy  gold  within  them 

You  can  scarcely  reach  to  touch ; 
O  how  far  their  aspect  differs. 

Looking  up  and  looking  down  ! 
You  look  up  in  that  green  valley— =• 
Valley  of  reno^\Ti. 


Are  there  voices  in  the  valley, 
Lying  near  the  heavenly  gate  ? 

When  it  opens,  do  the  harp-strings, 
Touched  within,  reverberate  ? 

When,  like  shooting-stars,  the  angels 
To  your  couch  at  nightfall  go. 

Are  their  swift  wings  heard  to  rustle  ? 
Tell  me  !  for  you  know. 


Yes,  you  know ;  and  you  are  silent, 
Xot  a  word  shall  asking  win  ; 

Little  mouth  more  sweet  than  rosebud, 
Fast  it  locks  the  secret  in. 


A  MOTHER  SHOWING  HER  CHILD'S  PORTRAIT.     305 

Not  a  glimpse  upon  your  present 

You  unfold  to  glad  my  view  ; 
Ah,  what  secrets  of  your  futm-e 
I  could  tell  to  you  ! 


Sunny  present !  thus  I  read  it, 
By  remembrance  of  my  past :  — 

Its  to-day  and  its  to-morrow 
Are  as  lifetimes  vague  and  vast ; 

And  each  face  in  that  green  valley 
Takes  for  you  an  aspect  mild, 

And  each  voice  grows  soft  in  saying 
"Kiss  me,  little  child!" 


As  a  boon  the  kiss  is  granted : 
Baby  mouth,  your  touch  is  sweet, 

Takes  the  love  without  the  trouble 
From  those  lips  that  with  it  meet ; 

Gives  the  love,  O  pure  !  O  tender ! 
Of  the  valley  where  it  grows, 

But  the  baby  heart  receiveth 

More  than  it  bestows. 

20 


306     A  MOTHER  SHOWI^'G  HER  CHILD'S  PORTRAIT. 

Comes  the  future  to  the  present  — 

*'  Ah  !  "  she  saith,  "  too  blithe  of  mood ; 

Why  that  smile  which  seems  to  whisper  — 
'  I  am  happy,  God  is  good '  ? 

God  IS  good  :  that  truth  eternal 
Sown  for  you  in  happier  years, 

I  must  tend  it  in  my  shadow, 
AVater  it  with  tears. 


"  Ah,  sweet  present !  I  must  lead  thee 
By  a  daylight  more  subdued  ; 

There  must  teach  thee  low  to  whisper— 
'  I  am  mournful,  God  is  good  ! '  " 

Peace,  thou  future  !  clouds  are  coming. 
Stooping  from  the  mountain  crest, 

But  that  sunshine  floods  the  valley 
Let  her  —  let  her  rest. 


Comes  the  future  to  the  present  — 

"  Child,"  she  saith,  "  and  wilt  thou  rest? 

How  long,  child,  before  thy  footsteps 
Fret  to  reach  yon  cloudy  crest  ? 


A  MOTHER  SHOWING  HER  CHILD'S  PORTRAIT.     307 

Ah,  the  valley  !  —  angels  guard  it, 

But  the  heights  are  brave  to  see ; 

Looking  down  were  long  contentment : 

Come  up,  child,  to  me." 


So  she  speaks,  but  do  not  heed  her, 
Little  maid  with  wondrous  eyes, 

Xot  afraid,  but  clear  and  tender. 
Blue,  and  filled  with  prophecies  ; 

Thou  for  whom  life's  veil  unlifted 
Hangs,  whom  warmest  valleys  fold, 

Lift  the  veil,  the  charm  dissolveth  — 
Climb,  but  heights  are  cold. 


There  are  buds  that  fold  within  them. 
Closed  and  covered  from  our  sight. 

Many  a  richly-tinted  petal, 
Never  looked  on  by  the  light : 

Fain  to  see  their  shrouded  faces. 
Sun  and  dew  are  long  at  strife. 

Till  at  length  the  sweet  buds  open  — 
Such  a  bud  is  life. 


308     A  MOTHEPv  SHO^yIXG  HEK  CHILD'S  PORTE-UT. 

When  the  rose  of  thine  own  being 

Shall  reveal  its  central  fold, 
Thou  shalt  look  -within  and  marvel, 

Fearing  what  thine  eyes  behold  ; 
What  it  shows  and  what  it  teaches 

Are  not  things  wherewith  to  part ; 
Thorny  rose  !  that  always  costeth 
Beatings  at  the  heart. 


Look  in  fear,  for  there  is  dimness  ; 

Ills  unshapen  float  anigh. 
Look  in  awe  :  for  this  same  nature 

Once  the  Godhead  deigned  to  die. 
Look  in  love,  for  He  doth  love  it, 

And  its  tale  is  best  of  lore  : 
Still  humanity*  grows  dearer. 

Being;  learned  the  more. 


Learn,  but  not  the  less  bethink  thee 
How  that  all  can  mingle  tears ; 

But  his  joy  can  none  discover. 
Save  to  them  that  are  his  peers ; 


A  MOTHER  SHOWLN'G  HER  CHTT.P'S  PORTEAIT.     309 

And  that  they  whose  lips  do  utter 

Language  such  as  bards  hare  sung  — 
Lo  !  their  speech  shall  be  to  many 
As  an  unknown  tongue 

Learn,  that  if  to  thee  the  meaning 

Of  all  other  eyes  be  shown, 
Fewer  eyes  can  ever  front  thee, 

That  are  skilled  to  read  thine  own ; 
And  that  if  thy  lovers  deep  current 

Many  another's  far  outflows, 
Then  thy  heart  must  take  for  ever 
Less  than  it  bestows. 


310 


STRIFE  AND  PEACE. 


Written  for  The  Portfolio  Society,  October,  1861. 


HE  yellow  poplar  leaves  came  down 
And  like  a  carpet  lay, 
No  waftings  were  in  the  sunny  air 

To  flutter  them  away  ; 
And  he  stepped  .on  blithe  and  deb- 
onair 
That  warm  October  day. 


*'  The  boy,"  saith  he,  "  hath  got  his  own, 

But  sore  has  been  the  fight, 
For  ere  his  life  began  the  strife 

That  ceased  but  yesternight ; 
For  the  will,"  he  said,  "  the  kinsfolk  read. 

And  read  it  not  aright. 


STRIFE    AND    PEACE.  311 

**  His  cause  was  argued  in  the  court 

Before  his  christening  day, 
And  counsel  was  heard,  and  judge  demurred. 

And  bitter  waxed  the  fray ; 
Brother  with  brother  spake  no  word 

When  they  met  in  the  way. 

**  Against  each  one  did  each  contend, 

And  all  against  the  heir. 
I  would  not  bend,  for  I  knew  the  end  — 

I  have  it  for  my  share, 
And  nought  repent,  though  my  first  friend 

From  henceforth  I  must  spare. 

*'  Manor  and  moor  and  farm  and  wold 
-  Their  greed  begrudged  him  sore. 
And  parchments  old  with  passionate  hold 

They  guarded  heretofore ; 
And  they  carped  at  signature  and  seal. 

But  they  may  carp  no  more. 

*'  An  old  affront  will  stir  the  heart 
Through  years  of  rankling  pain. 
And  I  feel  the  fret  that  urged  me  yet 


312  STRIFE    A>vD    PEACE. 

That  warfare  to  maintain ; 
For  an  enemy's  loss  may  well  be  set 
Above  an  infant's  gain. 

"  An  enemy's  loss  I  go  to  prove ; 

Laugh  out,  thou  little  heir ! 
Laugh  in  his  face  who  vowed  to  chase 

Thee  from  thy  birthright  fair ; 
For  I  come  to  set  thee  in  thy  place : 

Laugh  out,  and  do  not  spare." 

A  man  of  strife,  in  wrathful  mood 
He  neared  the  nurse's  door ; 

With  poplar  leaves  the  roof  and  eaves 
Were  thickly  scattered  o'er, 

And  yellow  as  they  a  sunbeam  lay 
Along  the  cottage  floor. 

"  Sleep  on,  thou  pretty,  pretty  lamb," 
He  hears  the  fond  nurse  say ; 

"  And  if  angels  stand  at  thy  right  hand, 
As  now  belike  they  may, 

And  if  angels  meet  at  thy  bed's  feet, 
I  fear  them  not  this  dav. 


STRIFE   AND   PEACE.  313 

*'  Come  wealth,  come  •want  to  thee,  dear  heart, 

It  was  all  one  to  me, 
For  thy  pretty  tongue  far  sweeter  rung 

Than  coined  gold  and  fee  ; 
And  ever  the  while  thy  waking  smile 

It  was  right  fair  to  see. 

*'  Sleep,  pretty  bairn,  and  never  know 
Who  grudged  and  who  transgressed ; 

Thee  to  retain  I  was  full  fain. 
But  God,  He  knoweth  best ! 

And  His  peace  upon  thy  brow  lies  plain 
As  the  sunshine  on  thy  breast ! " 

The  man  of  strife,  he  enters  in. 

Looks,  and  his  pride  doth  cease  ; 
Anger  and  sorrow  shall  be  to-morrow 

Trouble,  and  no  release  ; 
But  the  babe  whose  life  awoke  the  strife 

Hath  entered  into  peace. 


yean  Inge  low' s  JVr  kings. 


CTUDIES    FOR    STORIES.     Comprising 

Five  Stories,  with  an  Illustration  to  each  Story. 

In  one  vol.  i6mo.     Price  $1.50. 

"  Simple  in  style,  warm  with  human  affection,  and  written  in  faultless 
English,  these  five  stories  are  studies  for  the  artist,  sermons  for  the 
thoughtful,  and  a  rare  source  of  delight  for  all  who  can  find  pleasure  in 
really  good  works  of  prose  fiction.  .  .  .  They  are  prose  poems,  carefully 
meditated,  and  exquisitely  touched  in  by  a  teacher  ready  to  sympathize 
with  every  joy  and  sorrow."  — Athencnun. 

CTORIES   TOLD  TO  A  CHILD.     Com- 
prising Fourteen  Stories,  with  an  Illustration  to 
each  Story.     In  one  vol.  i6mo.     Price  $1.75. 

A  cheaper  edition,  with  Five  Illustrations.     Price 
$1.25. 

"  This  is  one  of  the  most  charming  juvenile  books  ever  laid  on  our 
table.  It  is  beautifully  printed  and  bound,  and  profusely  illustrated. 
The  stories  are  very  interesting,  and  breathe  a  sweet,  pure,  happy. 
Christian  spirit.  Jean  Ingelow,  the  noble  English  poet,  second  only  to 
Mrs.  Browning,  bends  easily  and  gracefully  from  the  heights  of  thought 
and  fine  imagination  to  commune  with  the  minds  and  hearts  of  children ; 
to  sympathize  with  their  little  joys  and  sorrows  ;  to  feel  for  their  temp- 
tations. She  is  a  safe  guide  for  the  little  pilgrims  ;  for  her  paths,  though 
'paths  of  pleasantness,'  lead  straight  upward."  —  Grace  Green-wood  in 
"■  The  L  itile  Pilgrhn. ' ' 

■pOOR  MATT ;    or,  The  Clouded  Intel- 
lect.    With    an    Illustration.      One  vol.  i8mo. 
Price  60  cents. 

"  A  lovely  story  ;  told  in  most  sweet  and  simple  language.  There 
is  a  deep  spiritual  significance  in  the  character  of  the  poor  half-idiot 
boy,  which  should  touch  the  hearts  of  '  children  of  a  larger  growth.'  "  — 
Grace  Greefiwood  in  "  The  Little  Pilgritn." 

Mailed  to  any  address,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of  the 
price,  by  the  publishers, 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  Boston. 


A  Companion  Volume  to  Jean  Ingelow's  Poems. 


Christina   RossettV s   Poems. 

With  four  designs  bj  D.  G.  Rossetti.     One  elegant 
i6mo  volume.     Price  $1.75. 


Fro7n  tJie  Boston  Tra^iscript. 

"  One  more  dainty  volume  comes  from  the  publishing  house  which 
has  sent  out  to  the  American  public  reprints  of  the  poems  of  Jean 
Ingelow,  and  of  the  two  friends,  David  Gray  and  Robert  Buchanan.- 
.  .  .  Her  poems  are  graceful,  always  sweet,  sometimes  powerful.  The 
future  will  decide  whether  she  possesses  genius  or  not ;  she  certainly 
has  poetical  talent  of  a  high  order.  It  seems  to  us  that  her  poems  will 
not  at  once  attain  so  great  a  popularity  as  those  of  Jean  Ingelow,  but 
that  they  will  surely  win  favor  among  thoughtful  and  discriminating 
readers.  An  idyl,  or  a  well-told  story  of  countiy  life,  is  at  once  attract- 
ive ;  and  a  part  of  Jean  Ingelow's  popularity  arises  from  her  sketches, 
which  every  one  can  understand  and  love.  Christina  Rossetti's  poems 
are  more  meditative,  and  show  evidences  of  deeper  thought,  and,  per- 
haps, of  a  stronger  mind." 

From  the  Albany  Argtcs  {John  G.  Saxe). 

"  Two  of  the  best  of  the  younger  poets  of  this  generation  are  women  : 
Jean  Ingelow  and  Christina  Rossetti.  It  should  be  said  that  these  fair 
candidates  for  the  laurel  are,  as  yet,  more  remarkable  for  great  promise 
than  for  great  achievement ;  but  it  must  be  admitted  that  their  perform- 
ance is  good,  —  in  some  things  excellent ;  and  that  Messrs.  Roberts 
Brothers  have  done  the  American  public  a  favor  in  republishing  — 
very  handsomely  in  print  and  paper — the  collected  poems  of  those 
agreeable  writers.  The  woman  who  could  write  '  The  Songs  of  Seven  * 
and  the  'High  Tide  on  the  Coast  of  Lincolnshire'  need  not  look  to 
fiiture  successes  for  applause  ;  and  certainly  there  are  many  poems  in 
this  beautiful  volume  by  Miss  Rossetti  which  entitle  her  to  a  high  place 
among  the  poets  of  the  day,  without  demanding  that  she  shall  write 
any  thing  better.  Indeed,  to  our  fancy,  Miss  Rossetti  surpasses 
Miss  Ingelow  in  the  higher  attributes  of  the  poet.  With  less  power  in  j 
describing  external  nature  than  her  singing  sister,  she  seems  to  us  the 
more  original  thinker ;  and,  with  less  elaborate  perfection  of  rhyme  and 
rhythm,  she  is  more  felicitous  in  the  conception  and  expression  of  rare 
and  beautiful  thoughts." 


Mailed  to  any  address,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of  price, 
bj  the  publishers, 

ROBERTS    BROTHERS,  Boston. 


^ 


Al 


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